


Overthinking It

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Any Warden, Blow Jobs, Broody Fenris (Dragon Age), Domestic Violence, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Dorian is trying, Eavesdropping, Fenris is Bad at Feelings, Fenris is trying, Fenris' gauntlets, Herald's Rest, Humor, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insert Your Inquisitor, M/M, Paranoia, Qamek (involuntary lobotomy) reference, Slow Burn, Smut, Waking to Sex, discussing slavery, early advocate, male mage Hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8138128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: Fenris joins the Inquisition and meets Dorian. Somehow, they don't kill each other. Wait, they're friends? Wait they -? Oh. Oh, my.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erasergremlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erasergremlin/gifts).



> Fenris' eyes look golden in all of the screenshots I found.

Fenris wondered where he would sleep tonight as he climbed the steps to Skyhold’s main hall. The place was enormous, and they still had to camp the army outside the walls.

 

He paused just inside the doors. This was by far the grandest space he’d seen. A little narrow and short by Kirkwall standards, but the stone walls vaulted to support grand chandeliers, ornate balconies, and intricate windows. Statues and laden tables lined the hall, and an imposing throne dominated the room from the other end.

 

Snatches of conversations reached Fenris’ ears, several in the snottiest of Orlesian accents. How many of these nobles worked with Tevinter slavers? How many enemies had he earned in four years? Every dead enemy had the potential to make two more.

 

The fireplace to Fenris’ right created a warm, personal tone around a table with more pens than forks. Three people stood from the table, including the dwarf he’d been looking for. They shook hands all around. A fourth, probably Carta, took a seat.

 

Fenris approached during the transition.

 

“Quite a step up from the Hanged Man, Varric.”

 

“Broody! You’re finally paying me that visit! You just missed Hawke. He left on some mission to save the world. Or find a Grey Warden, I forget which.”

 

Knowing Varric – and Hawke – it was both. Fenris shrugged, glancing around at the nobles again.

 

“I was in the area, and I thought I’d stop by.”

 

“No one’s in this area, but if you insist. We should catch up.” The smiles under the masks in the rest of the room meant nothing, but Varric’s easy manner told Fenris all he needed to know. Varric glanced back at the Carta waiting at the table. “Look, I’ve got another meeting. Why don’t you check out Skyhold, and then wait for me at Herald’s Rest? That’s the tavern across the way. We’ll play a round of Wicked Grace. I wonder if Ruffles would lend you a tour guide.”

 

Fenris wondered how high up ‘Ruffles’ was in the chain of command. “No need. I’ve already explored. I get the idea.”

 

Varric hesitated.

 

 “Spit it out, dwarf.” But Fenris let his amusement show.

 

“I– I should warn you. There’s a Tevinter mage here, not a magister, an altus I’m told. That’s–”

 

Fenris was ready. Always ready.

 

“I know what an altus is.” Hadriana had been an altus.

 

“Yeah, well, Sparkler’s not that. The man practically oozes Tevinter, but he doesn’t fit their cackling-evil mold.”

 

Sparkler? So Varric wasn’t warning him that this altus would clap him in irons?

 

“What is your point?”

 

“My point is, please don’t kill a member of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle. Not without provocation, anyway.”

 

Fenris allowed a smile and said, “I won’t kill anyone in Skyhold unprovoked. I can promise nothing more.”

 

“That’s all I ask, Broody! See you in a few hours.”

 

###

 

The tavern was filling up. Normally he might head back to his room now, but Dorian found being on good terms with the Qunari of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle had an interesting result. People who might try a sly comment (or an elbow) stayed away. Dorian wondered if Bull had the same problem when he wasn’t around: if the bizarre sight of a Qunari and a Tevinter drinking together kept people at bay. More likely, it was just Bull. The man was physically intimidating, which was harder for Southerners to ignore than magic.

 

Dorian still noticed that sound echoed less in wooden buildings than in the stone buildings he was used to. Here, the voices blended and garbled into a general hubbub instead of keeping their distinct identities. The tavern air was filled with stale beer, whiskey, and hickory smoke from the fireplace. Cabot joked about his lack of training, but he had a good eye for ‘too drunk,’ so the place rarely smelled like vomit. A definite up side. On the downside, Cabot kept cutting Dorian off.

 

He watched the patrons filter in. It was a Charger night. Krem was already here, and Skinner entered looking deadly. Grim sat carefully on the floor, but Rocky kept glancing at the beams in the place in a most disconcerting way. Stitches and Dalish were running late.

 

The Chargers occupied half of the ground floor, but they left plenty of room for dancing. Not that anyone’s doing that, yet. Marion was still playing various slower, thought-provoking songs. The dancier stuff would come later. When it did, they would line up with partners and trace fast, loose mockeries of the elaborate steps of Halamshiral. Sometimes, someone even called the steps out. Dorian remembered and shook his head.

 

As he scanned the crowd, watching various patrons gather, clump, and mingle, Dorian noticed one anomaly. Anomalies are always interesting, but this one was a storm cloud. It – or he, rather – sat on the right end of the bar where drinks are easier to order. Black, spiky armor covered his lanky form, and an enormous sword was strapped to his back. He had white hair long enough to cover his eyes and his stubbly undercut, but all swept to one side, revealing a pointed ear on the side farthest from Dorian. The dark eyebrows revealed that the hair was bleached, in case there was any doubt. His golden skin puckered around his eyes but was otherwise smooth and shining in the candlelight. Intriguing white tattoos traced over it. As Dorian watched, the elf kept a steady stream of drinks coming. The bottle looked like wine but Cabot poured into a tankard.

 

The Iron Bull noticed Dorian staring. “Something caught your eye?”

 

He answered the inquiry the best way he knew: indirectly.

 

“Since I’ve come south, I’ve seen Dalish, I’ve seen Castless, I’ve even seen some very interesting Crow tattoos…”

 

When Bull’s head tilted that way, Dorian wondered where the horns would end up. Trashed vases? Tangled in a lamp?

 

“That blonde with the laugh?”

 

Dorian allowed his eyebrows to rise. “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah,” grunted the Bull.

 

Dorian’s mouth pursed briefly. Not a pout. More of a shrug with his lips.

 

“But what kind of tattoos are those?” He twitched his chin at the elf. “I see elements of old Dalish designs, and I can’t tell but– is that an ancient Tevene symbol?”

 

Bull paused a heartbeat, and then asked with humor in his voice, “Why don’t you ask him?”

 

Dorian raised an eyebrow. Bull knew he meant: Bad idea?

 

Bull mirrored the motion: Definitely.

 

“Alright, I will.” Dorian downed the second half of his beer.

 

Bull touched his arm. He had a light touch, for such a big man.

 

“Dorian, wait. Look at him again. Sure, he’s wearing Fog Warrior armor now. What would he wear in Tevinter?”

 

“Interesting mental exercise, redressing the patrons. Do I get to pause halfway?”

 

Bull gave Dorian the Look. _That_ one. Where you’d better just humor the person or Something Bad will Happen.

 

Dorian smiled, almost laughed.

 

“All right, I’ll indulge you.” He turned back to their fashion victim. “He’s an elf, so he’d be soporati or more likely a slave, so… so.” Dorian turned back Bull. “You complete and total ass. He belonged to Danarius.”

 

Bull’s turn to laugh.

 

“I knew you’d remember if he were wearing the right clothes.”

 

Dorian shot Bull a look promising harm.

 

“You nearly let me make a fool of myself.”

 

“But I didn’t. Besides, since when do you make a fool of yourself?”

 

Dorian glanced again. The other patrons gave the elf a wide berth, considering the growing crowd. His arms and shoulders guarded his drink and the rungs of the bar stool propped up his feet, causing his knees to stick out. The elf watched the room, using glimpses at key moments without smile or frown. His eyes crinkled for the bartender, and they exchanged a few words when he ordered his next refill.

 

“Right, I’m doing it anyway.” Dorian shrugged at Bull’s smirk. “At least I know it’s a trap.”

 

Bull guffawed as Dorian crossed to the bar, but he’d calmed down by the time Dorian ordered a drink.

 

“Good evening, Cabot. A tankard of your finest Ferelden piss.”

 

“Got any Fereldens in the house?” Cabot called. About half the bar shouted drunkenly.

 

Dorian hoped the dwarf was joking as he sat down, left of the tattooed elf and one seat between. He put on his best smile for the stranger. Battle stations, as his mother would say.

 

“Congratulations on Danarius.”

 

The elf startled into cold politeness.

 

“I beg your pardon?” The words and tone were straight from court: He had traveled in the highest circles of Minrathrous. His voice sounded like a promise kept.

 

Dorian ignored the effect that voice was having on his thoughts and flicked a hand to dismiss an imaginary dead magister.

 

“Four years late, I realize, but I didn’t have an address to send the card. He was a plague on the Magisterium, all sacrificial blood magic and clawing to the top. The Magisterium has plenty to spare, but he tended go above and beyond. As you know too well.”

 

The elf’s eyes narrowed and his right hand tightened around the handle of the tankard.

 

“Have we met?”

 

“Apologies, I should have started there. Dorian Pavus, at your service.” Dorian did his best impression of a formal bow from his bar stool.

 

“Sorry, you look so much like your father. I was confused.” Ah, yes. The tone was dismissive, the intent to wound. Yet not a kill shot.

 

Dorian’s heart beat a little faster; his forehead and eyes relaxed. His chest pushed out just a little more, more confidence more bravado.

 

“I assure you: in this case, looks are deceiving.” He found himself leaning, so he pulled fractionally away from Fenris again. Sit up straight. Keep your equilibrium.

 

“So I gathered from your speech about blood magic. Of course, it _is_ just speech, so perhaps there are still parallels.” Oh, he’s good.

 

Dorian deflected the accusation with, “You’ve been getting news from the homeland.” Who told the elf? No one here. Outside his household, he’d only told Mae, and Dorian had sworn _her_ to secrecy. 

 

“Let’s just say we have mutual acquaintances who were – relieved – when the subject of a certain ritual disappeared. Less mess, you understand. Less… work to cover.”

 

Acquaintances of a freeman? Dorian shivered. Household slaves must have spread reports that the Pavus estate was not safe.

 

“I can imagine. Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

 

“You have my name.” Now the elf was growling.

 

Dorian didn’t know elves _could_ growl. He definitely needed to meet more elves.

 

“Only what they called you in Tevinter.”

 

This was a good move. The growl ended, more’s the pity, but the elf's eyes relaxed a fraction and his lips softened.

 

“I still go by Fenris. Old habits.” And point to Dorian.

 

Cabot brought Dorian’s piss. He paid, tossed the change in the tip jar, and looked at his drink as if _this_ one might have answers.

 

“I know what you mean.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

He nodded backward. “Old habits.”

 

Fenris twitched hair out of his wheat-yellow eyes.

 

“Blood magic habit hard to break?” But his tone had no edge.

 

“No. That one was easy,” Dorian addressed his beer before drinking. Fenris continued watching him. He sipped at his drink, purposely waiting till the stare turned awkward. Then Dorian turned to say, “What?”

 

Fenris returned to his drink. “Maybe you do know what I mean.” He’d conceded a point to the elf, but the match might be Dorian’s.

 

They drank in parallel for a while. They kept a seat between them, aware of each other but never interacting. No one stepped between them to order. No matter how crowded the bar got – and it was filling up tonight – that one seat between them remained empty, as if something visible and dangerous occupied it. Dorian contemplated how to restart their conversation, and whether that would even be a good idea.

 

As they finished their drinks at the same time, Cole appeared through the crowd to the left of Dorian, away from Fenris, and said, “He won’t leave.”

 

“We’re hardly to that point, Cole,” Dorian hissed at the spirit.

 

“But you want to be. Scared, scattering, scintillating, skin under moonlight. Do they glow?”

 

Dorian leaned away.

 

“Sometimes conversations with you are downright unnerving. I hope no one heard you.”

 

“If they do, they’ll forget.” Cole had a simple, but effective, way of dealing with awkwardness.

 

Fenris turned to say, “Who are you talking to?”

 

Then Cole appeared on Fenris’ other side. Dorian felt a dissonant compression in the Fade. Had Cole jumped across them, or had Dorian forgotten Cole walking?

 

Fenris turned his head as Cole said, “He’ll stop if you ask him.”

 

“No, I… he will?”

 

Dorian said, “Cole, I’ll remember this.”

 

Cole looked straight at Dorian and said, “Well, you will stop.”

 

“Of course, but–”

 

Cole disappeared again, and Fenris pivoted to ask, “Of course what? Sorry. What were we talking about?”

 

“We need another drink. I’d like to buy yours, if you’d let me.”

 

“You don’t have to do that.”

 

“You're right, I don’t. That’s the point.”

 

Just one corner of the elf’s lip twitched up a fraction as he nodded. It wasn’t much, but Dorian found it… fascinating. He ordered the drinks. It was Antivan wine for Fenris. He had the same.

 

Dorian turned to Fenris. They didn’t have drinks yet to occupy their – to occupy them, so now maybe conversation would work.

 

“I have a question for you.”

 

The elf’s eyebrows were much more mobile than his lips. One quirked above the other as Fenris responded, “I may have an answer. Shall we see if they match?”

 

Dorian shook his head.

 

“Feel free to feed me nonsense. It’s… rather personal.”

 

Fenris turned to Dorian, giving his full attention. He gestured for Dorian to continue with an Archon's presumption and then set that hand on the seat between them.

 

Dorian resisted the urge to slide into the seat at the subtle invitation. Instead he asked his question.

 

“What do you do with your freedom?” Dorian hated asking frank questions. He had to train all the sarcasm out of his voice, add pauses to indicate the gravity, and if taken the wrong way, the question would be harder to brush away.

 

In spite of all that, Fenris chuckled.

 

“What do you do with yours?”

 

He allowed bitter humor to creep back into his voice. He said, “I see your point,” because he did. It was an interesting interpretation. Was Dorian an escapee of Tevinter? Lucky, really, that he had such skill, wit, and charm, or he might not have survived. “For now, I’m with the Inquisition. It’s fighting the worst elements out of Tevinter.”

 

“What does an altus consider the worst of Tevinter?”

 

“Shall we start with blood magic-slinging servants of Corypheus? Altus assholes in line for seats in the Magisterium, plus their laetan lackeys.”

 

“I take it they had wronged you?” Fenris was laying down a test, perhaps.

 

Well, Dorian excelled at tests.

 

“Of course. I knew they were the scum of Thedas. Scum do try to protect themselves. Well, one of them wronged Mae, but is that different?”

 

“Not if this ‘Mae’ is dear.”

 

“Like a sister. Well, more like an aunt. The cool aunt, not the frumpy one who smells old and pinches your cheek.”

 

“So, you kill mages? Is that it?”

 

“No, we also kill templars infected with red lyrium, demons pulled from the Fade, various beasts, and anyone else who volunteers for it.”

 

“I see. All worthy goals.”

 

“What you should see is the Inquisitor. Holding us together, inspiring us. But you’ve redirected me. I was asking what you do with your freedom. I’ve given my answer. What’s yours?”

 

Fenris took another drink, a big one. He considered a few moments, and then nodded. “I’m joining the Inquisition.”

 

Dorian almost laughed. “Here to sign up?”

 

“Here to visit an old friend, but I had been considering it.”

 

Dorian realized he was flattered that his descriptions of the Inquisition’s work were that good. “What clinched it?” Dorian was buzzing a little; he’d fish for compliments if he wanted.

 

“I like what I’ve seen here.” Fenris’ eyes flicked over Dorian, resting at the bare shoulder, the tailored leggings.

 

Dorian smiled brighter. Better and better. He worked hard to ensure his looks improved with age and proper skin care. He sized Fenris up and let his interest show.

 

“Somehow I can’t imagine you in those hideous Inquisition uniforms.”

 

“True. My skills are a little more – specialized – than the common soldier.” This mellow, melodic tone was almost as good as the growl.

 

Dorian couldn’t resist. He leaned into his response.

 

“Oh, really. Tell me more.”

 

Fenris smirked.

 

“My tattoos give me the ability to reach into someone’s chest and crush their heart,” he rumbled.

 

Dorian’s eyebrows twitched as he put the reality of that claim aside for a moment. A new game was afoot.

 

“That must be useful for completing your conquests.”

 

“I don’t use it often. Only on special victims.” Dear sweet Andraste, the growl was back.

 

Dorian arched one eyebrow quizzically and tilted his head just a titch.

 

“Oh?”

 

“We’ve only just met, and already you’re asking for my list?” Fenris’ tone was reproachful, but his chin dipped low so his eyelashes caught the candlelight and added sparkle to his golden eyes. He tilted away, and again Dorian resisted an urge to move closer.

 

Instead, Dorian maintained his playful smirk.

 

“I’m naturally curious when something catches my eye.”

 

Fenris chuckled and then submitted another test.

 

“And if the object of your attention is not interested?” His voice purred, and he leaned toward Dorian. There. His eyes were wary, narrow, and alert. That’s what Dorian should believe.

 

Dorian leaned back, maintaining the distance between them, but still using his get-me eyes and voice.

 

“I would turn my attention elsewhere, naturally.”

 

Dorian caught the flicker of relief in Fenris’ eyes before the elf masked it. Something clicked in his brain, a rumor he’d heard about Danarius’ tastes.

 

He leaned just close enough murmur to the elf: “I would never hurt you.” Then, with his most charming smile: “Well, not unless you asked _very_ nicely.”

 

Fenris leaned back to center, broke eye contact, put both hands and eyes on his drink. His face closed when he turned to Dorian.

 

“The rank and file doesn’t suit me. Are there other units I could join?”

 

Ah, well, that game was fun while it lasted. Damn his impulses; his last comment _was_ a bit much. Besides bantering with the Inquisitor from time to time, Dorian rarely got his fill of innuendos and clever meanings, but better a taste than nothing at all.

Dorian maintained his friendly smile, but matched Fenris’ other body language. No big deal, he told the other man without words. They could have something, but only if both wanted it.

 

“There are several mercenary groups. Bull’s Chargers are best, in my biased opinion. The Iron Bull, their leader, is part of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle, so they get their pick of assignments.”

 

“The Iron Bull?”

 

Few had a name that fit so well.

 

“Big guy in the corner.” Dorian nodded to indicate the huge horned Qunari behind them and to their right.

 

Fenris looked at Bull, and he _flinched_. Dorian tried to see through Fenris’ eyes. The Iron Bull was laughing with his Chargers tonight, instead of sprawling in the corner, drawing bar maids like flies to honey. His belly laugh filled the tavern, carrying over the general conversation and ribaldry.

 

That flinch was a strong reaction, even to a Qunari. Dorian remembered again how good he was when all the tension Fenris had gradually lost during their conversation flowed back. Fenris didn’t quite turn back to huddle over his tankard again, but it looked to be a near thing.

 

He stared at Bull and said, “I will not submit to the Qun.”

 

“Does he look Qunari?”

 

“The horns kind of give it away. Kaffas, those are bigger than the Arishok’s.”

 

Dorian snickered as he said, “Especially now that the Arishok has none.” But Fenris did not relax. Krem was telling a joke or a story. “Look again. Better yet, listen to him laugh.” Right on cue, the Ben-Hassrath bellowed into the rafters. “Tal-Vashoth.” Dorian would feel bad about the lie if it weren’t so close to true.

 

Fenris turned to let his gaze dance over Dorian’s face. “Or so the official story goes,” Fenris probed.

 

Dorian shrugged. Not his secret.

 

“You could ask him yourself.”

 

“All right. Let’s go meet this Tal-Vashoth.” Fenris’ eyes narrowed and he stepped down from his stool. He stood on the balls of his feet, reviewed the room at a glance, and bounced the enormous Blade of Mercy strapped to his back.

 

Dorian half-expected him to snarl and bite next.

 

“Are you sure? You seem–”

 

Fenris nearly did snarl, then. He turned and looked Dorian straight in the eye. One lip curled up at a corner, showing teeth. Where was the clever elf he’d just spent a quarter hour bantering with?

 

Dorian put his hands up, palms out. For the first time, he wondered if chatting up Fenris was a mistake. They went together to meet Bull.

 

###

 

It had gotten busier than Fenris realized as they’d talked. The short walk to the corner with the ‘Tal-Vashoth’ involved dodging around several fellow patrons, though the ones who looked up got out of his way.

 

Fenris was grateful for the worn-smooth floors on his bare feet, only partly covered by his leather greaves. Stone would have been colder, but even stone was better than splinter-filled new wood. In his travels, Fenris had walked over new floors that put splinters even in his thick calluses. He’d take cold any day, but this was ideal.

 

It looked like the Qunari was carousing with seasoned fighters. Fenris’ sword pressed reassuringly against his back. Did the Tevinter recognize it, see the irony in its use? Whatever else the mage was, he could appreciate irony. Venhedis, he’d been having a good time for once, with someone interesting to talk to and fun to watch. Why did reality have to spoil it? There’s always an angle with Tevinter. So much for Varric’s ‘Sparkler.’

 

As he approached the Qunari, he realized he should have waited till Varric showed up. Ah, well, arrows in a bar brawl are no good until the other patrons clear out, anyway. Fenris wondered how many Thedas-wide bar brawls went the way about 80% of Hanged Man fights go: with blood or bodies on the floor. Kirkwall. Why did he stay in that black-powder keg so long? Oh, right, Hawke.

 

“Bull, meet Fenris, newest recruit to the Inquisition. Fenris, meet The Iron Bull, of Bull’s Chargers.”

 

“A pleasure.”

 

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

 

“Just joined, huh?” The Qunari had a big smile, and he seemed relaxed, but everyone watched Fenris’ hands. “Been assigned, yet?”

 

“That’s why we came over.” Dorian Pavus was pretending not to treat him like a wild dog. “I was wondering if he’d be a good fit for the Chargers.”

 

“Hmm. Former Fog Warrior, from the armor,” the Iron Bull said.

 

Fenris was paranoid, but every conspiracy had a limit to its plausibility. He watched the Qunari as he asked, “Dorian, have you ever been to Seheron?”

 

Dorian chuckled, a scintillating smile catching on the corner of Fenris’ eye. Now Fenris doubted again. This mage fit Varric’s name 'Sparkler,' but no friend of Varric’s would betray Fenris this badly. “A Magister’s son? In a war zone? Perish the thought.”

 

The Iron Bull nodded and smirked under Fenris’ scrutiny.

 

“Uh-huh, and you don’t fight now, Vint?” Fenris had heard this man use that slur before. Now he was sure of it.

 

Dorian didn’t even bristle. What did that mean?

 

“Well, now I’m a pariah.” The mage flicked a hand dismissively.

 

Fenris chose to confront this now.

 

“It would be horribly ironic if you had visited Seheron, perhaps around 9:29 Dragon. I remember you, Hissrad.”

 

Dorian’s head jerked up: definitely surprised.

 

“And you’re the Demon of the Fog, aren’t you Fenris.”

 

“I couldn’t say.” Fenris’ smile was all teeth. A few of the Chargers shifted, but Hissrad reassured them with a glance. Even Dorian’s fingers twitched, light flashing between them. “I can’t control what other people call me. I’ve been Fenris as long as I remember.” Close enough to true for this conversation.

 

Suddenly, Dorian turned, outraged, to the Qunari.

 

“You _used_ me to get him over here!” There goes the last of Fenris’ paranoia. The altus hadn’t known.

 

The Iron Bull’s smooth, deep voice flowed over Dorian, soothing the mage. This was one to watch.

 

“If I’d gone to him, he’d have spooked. Wouldn’t you?”

 

Fenris regarded the Qunari.

 

“I must admit, he’s more alluring.”

 

The Bull laughed as he said, “To you, maybe.”

 

“Hello, still here! You, ser, cannot use me as a-a recruiting lure.”

 

“Why not? It worked, didn’t it?”

 

If looks could kill, Dorian would face the Inquisitor on murder charges in the morning.

 

As it was, the Iron Bull just responded, “Umph. And there’s why.” Apparently he liked a little deadly evil in his eye candy. Not that Fenris didn’t see the appeal.

 

Dorian huffed, in an oddly pleased way.

 

The Iron Bull turned back to Fenris.

 

“Varric gave me a heads-up you were looking for a place to land. I’d like you to consider the Chargers. You didn’t skewer my envoy, so I assume you’ve learned to see individuals.”

 

“Kirkwall,” Fenris acknowledged.

 

“Huh. Kirkwall, then. I’ve seen your work in Seheron. Have you kept it up?”

 

Fenris’ dangerous smile held more promise than threat this time. “Improved, even.” This was about getting a job, not elaborate revenge for all the men he’d killed.

 

_fog wraps around them_

_only one close enough to see: Minato, his guiding light_

_he glowed blue,_

_took the attention – Minato used her daggers_

_They lived, and their enemies died._

 

Iron Bull’s voice pulled Fenris back to the tavern.

 

“If that’s true, the position’s yours. We can do a round in the fighting ring tomorrow morning. Now, you need anything from me?”

 

“Was it you who used the qamek on Minato?”

 

“Who?” Hissrad raised his hands. “Sorry, but we didn’t use names.”

 

Fenris’ fists clenched. “Minato. Black hair, wicked knives, sharper wit. Minato.”

 

Again, Dorian’s eyebrows rose. He glanced between them, putting pieces together. The Iron Bull just shook his head.

 

“Damn. No. Only the Tamassrans do that. I can only assume Minato refused to submit.” The Qunari opened his arms.

 

Fenris slumped a little, consciously relaxed his fists. “Yes, she would never willingly submit to the Qun.”

 

The Iron Bull frowned. “If our roles had been reversed, she’d be dead.”

 

“Better that than a mindless vegetable,” Fenris growled back.

 

“Hey, you know the Qunari. They waste nothing.” Iron Bull’s voice was light, but it held a tinge of regret.

 

 _They._ Could Fenris trust that? _Hissrad. Liar._

 

Fenris folded his arms and tried throwing him off. “Why hire someone who killed your soldiers in Seheron?”

 

But the Iron Bull was unflappable.

 

“You killed them without collateral damage.” The Bull waved a massive hand to indicate others in the bar. People, living their lives. “I respect that. You killed as many Vints as Qunari, and I _really_ hate the Vints. No offense, Dorian.”

 

“Offense taken, of course.”

 

Fenris leaned in a little, narrowing his eyes. “How did you recognize me as the Demon of the Fog? We never met, and you never saw me on the field.”

 

“But you saw me?” The Bull’s chuckle was easy. “I guess I’ll count myself lucky, then. I got a pretty good description from the friend who _did_ submit to the Qun. What was his name? Black curly hair, easygoing, thinker.”

 

“Tiriaq,” Fenris growled.

 

“That was it. Good guy. He told me about your tattoos, gave me the general description. Nice undercut, by the way.”

 

“You’re complementing my hair in the same breath you use to say my friend tried to betray me to the Qunari?”

 

“ _Did_ betray you, actually. But that was then, this is now. You may have noticed: we’re not in Seheron anymore.”

 

Fenris looked around. “A Fog Warrior, a Magister, and a Ben-Hassrath walk into a bar.”

 

Dorian stiffened, but the Bull just laughed again.

 

“And didn’t kill each other. That’s important.”

 

“Two things,” Dorian interjected. “First, I’m an altus, as you both well know.” They shrugged in unison. “Second, do you tell everyone?”

 

“No! He must have figured it out in Seheron.” The Bull continued to Fenris, “Obviously, if you have objections to following my orders, or the orders of my officers, we’d have problems.”

 

Fenris shrugged. “Fair enough. What’s your interest in the Inquisition, Hissrad?” He didn’t inject venom into the title this time.

 

The Bull shrugged again. “I’m not sure what my bosses back home have in mind, but freaky talking darkspawn magister ripping holes in the sky? Everyone knows that’s bad news.”

 

Fenris nodded. “What else do you know about me?” There would be more. He’d done well on Seheron.

 

Fenris monitored Dorian as Bull rattled the list off: “You got your tattoos from Danarius. Hawke was with you when you killed the bastard.”

 

Dorian’s light brown eyes narrowed just a twitch at that revelation. He must not have known Fenris was friends with Hawke.

 

“I suspect your interest in Corypheus is as personal as Varric’s. I’m pretty sure you visited with Varric before coming here.”

 

Fenris shrugged. “He should be here soon for cards.”

 

“As a former Tevinter slave you’d like to see all slaves freed.”

 

“How would you know that, I wonder?”

 

“Also Varric. If it helps, I approve of the work you’ve been doing since Kirkwall,” Bull said.

 

Fenris thought about it and found he didn’t having a problem following Bull’s orders. He was a different person then; they both were. Now they would work for the same cause: stop Corypheus. Correct the mistake he’d made with Hawke in the Prison so long ago.

 

“All right, why should I join the Chargers?”

 

“Ugh,” Dorian interjected. “Terms. Excuse me; I have just discovered somewhere else I’d rather be. Glad this worked for you, Bull. Good to meet you, Fenris.” Dorian went to order another drink. When Fenris glanced toward the mage, he recognized the Antivan red Cabot poured as the wine they’d shared earlier.

 

###

 

Dorian made this his last drink of the evening, deciding he wanted to be at the fighting ring in the morning. He watched Bull negotiate with Fenris and introduce him to the Chargers. Fenris laughed before Dorian realized Bull was also great at ‘facilitating negotiations,’ his mother called it. The laugh wasn’t as big as Bull’s, but there was a smile and a shaking of shoulders. Fenris looked across the room at Dorian. He raised his tankard in a small salute before Fenris glanced away, corners of his mouth turned up. Dorian smiled into his wine until Varric arrived for cards.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the Tevene in this fic is swearing. Really, if you know that kaffas = shit, then you know about half the Tevene I used. If it's key to the conversation, I include a note in the narration. Otherwise, I'll include end notes for any other swears we might actually have translations on.
> 
> Thanks to Rosehip for sending me to this funny and pointed argument from Daniel Jose Older https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=24gCI3Ur7FM, which convinced me not to italicize the Tevene words. Yes, it’s a fictional language. The same concept is still true.
> 
> For the record, none of my aunts smell old or pinch my cheeks.


	2. Slavery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dorian cannot catch a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, no, Fenris gives him a break at the end of the chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> So, this chapter was really hard to write. Dorian does not grok, and Fenris is still struggling with it. I _am_ sorry if I fucked this up. Please let me know in the comments, and I will either fix it or explain why Dorian is such an idiot. Thanks!

Fenris had a spring in his step as he navigated the balconies between his room above the garden and the rotunda, fresh from his bath after a short final day on the road with the Chargers. It was nice to have a reliable home base for a change. How long had he been here? A month?

At the far end of the rotunda, Dorian was a picture of stylish indolence, lounging in his corner of the library, absorbed in his book. Fenris smiled at the title.

“The Tale of the Champion? Rather… sensational reading for your academic tastes, isn’t it?” Fenris teased. Dorian surprised him by jumping and slamming the book shut. Wouldn’t he lose his place?

“I was catching up with what Varric was up to… before…” Dorian glanced up and caught Fenris’ amused look. “I don’t even believe me.” Dorian glanced at the floor, out the window, then back to Fenris. “Bull knows so much about you, and I was curious. I figured I might start with the official story.”

Fenris smiled and tipped his head to one side to say, “The official story is full of Varric’s specialty: true lies. Next time, you may just want to ask me.”

“You weren’t here.” Dorian’s voice came out plaintive, and Fenris teased him.

“You missed me, didn’t you, mage?”

Something was off. Dorian looked surprised, and he responded a heartbeat slower than usual.

“Well, I was bored without you – to talk to – Thursday evening.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here. It’s not Thursday, but I was wondering if you were free tonight?”

“Missed me, too, did you?” Dorian’s nonchalant return triggered a flip in Fenris’ chest. “Give me a moment to recall my very busy social schedule.” Dorian tapped his chin, pretending to re-arrange non-existent appointments in his head. “Hmm, yes, I could make time tonight. What’d you have in mind?”

“Nothing special.” Fenris held a hand up. “Just our usual talk at the Herald’s Rest. Cards again if enough people show.”

Dorian smiled.

“I’d like that. Normal time?”

“Corner table!” Fenris waved as he headed back the way he’d come.

###

Dorian thought he’d found a casual topic.

“So, when we first met, Bull said something about ‘the work you’ve done since Kirkwall.’ I was wondering what that was?”

Marion played her tunes to the rhythmic stomping of feet on the main floor below. The tavern bustled around them, even in this relatively secluded corner. Bar maids delivered drinks, and social butterflies table-hopped. Sera was out, judging by her closed door, which didn’t bode well for the peace this evening. One pair was positively acting like children: two young men all but ran to collapse at the next table over, then whispered intently with their heads together.

“Ah. That. Well.” The elf shifted in his seat, picked up his tankard, stared at the bottom, set it back down, poured from the bottle of wine at their table. “I’ve enjoyed these chats, Dorian.”

Dorian raised en eyebrow and said, “Good?”

“That is why I have talked only about Kirkwall and the Inquisition. These chats might not continue if we talk about much else.” Fenris got so cute when he was being serious.

Dorian took another drink. “Well, eventually we will run out of things to talk about if we don’t breach new subjects.” His eyes danced.

Fenris studied him for a long moment, and then returned to his tankard.

“So, tell me, did your family have slaves?” he said in a conversational tone.

“I will choose to trust this will come around to my original inquiry, rather than prove a clever re-direction.” Dorian took a sip of beer. “Yes, they did, and I honestly thought little about it until I left Tevinter. My family treats their slaves well.”

“And that’s justification?”

A third young man descended upon the discussion at the next table, but after a few words all three boys flew up the stairs to Cole’s floor and the ramparts beyond.

“No, I suppose it’s an excuse. Treating them well helps my family feel better about owning intelligent beings.” Dorian sipped his beer.

“I see,” Fenris continued in that strangely neutral tone, arms folding across his chest. “And where do you buy your slaves?” His jaw was set, determined.

Dorian kept his tone purposely light. “House Pavus?” He thought before answering, “On the rare occasions we needed new slaves, my parents bought from other families, often lower ones vying for our favor. That way, we knew what we were getting. Though, once my father bought the debt of a soporati who had been unfairly treated.” Dorian shrugged. “We could afford it.”

“How noble.”

“I can tell you don’t think so.” Dorian finally allowed his defenses to rise. “I didn’t question it until I moved out of Tevinter. Tell me, when did you leave Danarius?”

“9:29 Dragon,” Fenris admitted.

“A dozen years ago.” Dorian flicked his hand. “When you left, were you immediately accustomed to freedom?” Dorian let his frustration show.

Fenris’ eyebrows knitted together as he reached for his tankard. “You were reading the Tale of the Champion. You know I wasn’t. The dwarf got that much right.” He muttered this last into his wine and sipped.

“When you entered his tale, you had been running two years. I left Tevinter less than a year ago. All of my friends and family had slaves. They were ever-present. That has been the least of the cultural differences I’m getting used to. Give me a fucking break.”

Fenris was silent, and Dorian was sure he had offended the elf… until he smiled his infuriating half-smile and unfolded his arms.

Fenris chuckled. “No.”

“No?” Dorian could not believe the nerve.

“No, I will not give you a fucking break.” Fenris leaned one hand on the table, elbow pointed up as he spoke. The other hand waved broadly. “If you want to pretend to be a decent human being, you will have to work for it. Try to understand what slaves go through.”

“I – I have to admit, you ask a lot.”

Now Fenris was angry.

“Do I? Because your kind asks for my will. No, that’s too abstract. You see slaves cooking, cleaning, serving you. How many of your friends also take from those slaves: blood, pleasure, pain, _children_? What I’ve been doing… I have stories of my own, but these stories are repeated, mage, over and over again.”

Dorian had to resist a childhood urge to cover his ears and sing.

“No! No, they wouldn’t.” Dorian remembered something he once said to the Inquisitor: It’s safe to assume that any magister of rank practices blood magic. Not the cute, ‘cutting yourself to cast a powerful fireball in your enemies’ faces’ stuff they are shocked by here, either. Trails of channeled blood, feeding into power reserves, weakening the donor. The victim. Sometimes too much, sometimes beyond repair. Dorian twisted to the side, heaving, swallowing bile. Nothing passed his lips, thank the Maker.

Dorian took out a cloth, wiped his damp forehead, wiped the corners of his mouth.

“Excuse me.”

He looked up, ready to face Fenris’ disgust. But what he saw instead was worse. Concern. Pity. Dorian couldn’t stand it. Not from him.

“What would you have me do? It hurts, Fenris. It hurts to imagine you going through that, of Nadim or Ona being sold because we couldn’t support them anymore and…”

“You know your slaves by name?”

“My family’s slaves,” Dorian spat reflexively. Then: “Yes. How could I not?” He thought of Ona, swabbing his forehead with a cool cloth the first time he stumbled home after getting blackout drunk. “They were part of my family. They took care of me. More than my own parents, sometimes.”

“And who took care of them?” Fenris’ words could have come out accusatory, but they were gentle. “What would happen to them if they got sick?”

“I – I don’t know. I never thought they got sick. But that was stupid, wasn’t it? They never– never told me.” Now he thought of Ona, as sick as he was, miserable with no one to care for her. He wrung his hands like cloth.

“Dorian. They took care of each other.”

Dorian looked up from his vision, hopeful.

“If it helps, it might be they never told you because they wanted to shelter you. Ease your way so you could worry about ‘more important things.’ They may have even believed they loved you.”

Dorian thought about his life. Would he have taken the time – taken his own head out of his ass long enough to return the care so generously given to him? He wasn’t sure, and it killed him.

“Believed?”

“What choice did they have but to love their master?”

That stung. His family did treat their slaves well, and Dorian thought they had loved them in return. But, what other emotion would be accepted? Dorian remembered one slave they’d had, whom they’d sold because she was not happy at the Pavus estate. His father gave her a chance to be happy somewhere else, but the result was their slaves had to act happy and loving, or they would risk being moved to a worse situation. How much easier to act loving if you believe you love?

“You seem to have found another option.” Dorian made the same backward flick of his hand he’d made when they met a month ago, to refer to Danarius’ death.

“As you say, I’ve been out of Tevinter for twelve years. I have more luxury regarding my former master than I once did.”

“The luxury of hate.”

“I hope not. The luxury of rejection, should I choose it.”

Fear lanced through Dorian.

“You’re saying Ona, Nadim, and the others would choose rejection?”

“Maybe not, if you’re as good to them as you claim. But without that luxury, their love is meaningless.”

Dorian held his head in his hands.

“Fenris, when did you get so hard to talk to?”

He chuckled and replied, “When you insisted we talk about my time between Kirkwall and the Inquisition.”

“I take it back. Have you – have you heard about Sera’s latest prank?”

“I killed slavers.”

“Kaffas, Fenris.” At least Dorian didn’t have to think about his family – his family’s slaves – and the meaninglessness of their affection. Mae. You still have Mae, Dorian. Would he ever have more? He recalled the potential with the Iron Bull, and realized something might have happened, but now Bull was like a brother. When had that changed?

“Your family buys slaves from within Tevinter. Most don’t have that luxury. Many of Tevinter’s slaves were born in the South. The slavers kidnap people, especially elves and children, and sell them to the Slave Market. Officially, the Slave Market is for people selling their slaves or themselves, usually to pay off debt. No one enforces it though.”

Dorian nodded, and then shook his head. He knew this, but it never seemed important.

“I have no desire to return to Tevinter. I refuse to watch others be dragged there.”

“So stop watching,” Dorian suggested half-heartedly.

“Dorian, it’s happening. I can’t sit at home and knit.”

“Of course you can’t. It's not your skill set. But you know the slavers don’t have better options, either, right?”

“They do. It’s just harder. Some of them change, but most don’t care.”

Dorian did not have the fortitude or ammunition to continue that argument. He clawed his way out of this conversation.

“How do you fund such an altruistic mission, anyway?”

“Same way the Inquisitor funds the entire Inner Circle: loot the bodies. And anything nearby.”

Dorian chuckled. This had promise.

“What’s the weirdest loot you’ve liquidated?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow at Dorian. He saw what Dorian was doing. Just let it go. Please. I can’t take much more.

“We had an entire shipment of live squid.”

Dorian released the breath he’d been holding.

“Squid?”

“Squid. Live ones. I wanted to leave them, but we were inland, and Ciar refused to let them die. He has a soft spot for tentacled creatures. Said they’re intelligent, like dogs. We searched the slavers’ records and sold them to the original buyer: an Orlesian pet store.”

“Huh. And how do you move a shipment of live squid?”

“A good question. The slavers had glass tanks, but the tanks didn’t exactly have wheels…”


	3. Just Kill Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Fenris does not threaten, but promises to kill Dorian. Under very specific conditions.

Fenris jogged up the stairs, contemplating the excess of eyes and wolves in Solas’ murals. This tower always smelled of straw and paint: more like straw toward the top, more like paint toward the bottom. He’d been planning to see if Dorian was up for drinks at the Rest tonight now that he was back from Redcliff, but when he got to the library, Dorian was sitting with his elbows on his table and his hands on his head.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

No response. No movement, even. Fenris moved to the opposite side of the table and bent low to see his face. The odor of dust and vellum rose from the books stacked on the table. A crow flapped in the Rookery above.

 

“Dorian?” Fenris asked, concerned.

 

“If I ever… endanger someone’s life with blood magic, or make a deal with a demon, will you please kill me? I won’t live like that.” He requested his death in a quiet, teasing voice.

 

Why did he do that? Dorian sounded over-dramatic, but he _wanted_ someone to stop him if he ever went too far.

 

So Fenris countered drama with the dramatic. Doubled down instead of folding.

 

“Mmm, depends.” Fenris pushed his arms straight, but didn’t stand up all the way. He put on a thoughtful expression. “To start, what if you try to kill your enemies with blood magic?”

 

“What?” Dorian looked up, light eyes wide, puffy.

 

“Would you have done the same with regular magic?”

 

Dorian waved a hand. “I don’t need blood magic to _kill_ things.”

 

“I’m saying you should probably define your terms before you set a contract on your own life,” Fenris said quietly, leaning over the books and writing materials scattered over the table. “What do you mean by blood magic?”

 

Dorian’s eyes – grey in this light – were still wide. Suddenly, Fenris realized why he could double down: he wasn’t bluffing. He would stop Dorian if the mage went too far, even kill him. He needed Dorian to understand that. To be friends with the mage, Dorian needed to agree.

 

“I mean stealing blood to power my magic.”

 

Someone on the other side of the library rustled a vellum page as Fenris closed his eyes and gripped the rough edge of the table. Good. Terms. He looked up at Dorian again.

 

“What if you figure out how to steal blood from your enemies? Should I strike you down then?”

 

“Are we talking actively trying to kill me right now, or just generally plotting against me?” Dorian’s smile twitched as he checked his mustache.

 

“Let’s go with 'trying to kill you' is fine, check with me ahead of time to bleed 'general plotters.'”

 

“Agreed.” Dorian nodded.

 

“Which reminds me, how do you tell if blood donations are unwilling?”

 

“They say it’s okay?” Dorian tested the idea, tapping his chin.

 

“What are their other choices?” Fenris countered.

 

Dorian returned his hands to the table, tilted his head sideways. “What are you getting at?”

 

“Dorian, if you ask your family slaves, they might agree to anything, because what the hell else are they going to do?” Fenris realized he was looming over Dorian.

 

Dorian considered.

 

“Okay, strike me down if my non-hostile victims are unwilling or powerless.”

 

“Good,” Fenris said, finally pulling out a chair.

 

“Good?” Dorian smiled across the table, lifting the stacks of books and vellum out of Fenris' way.

 

“Now, about this ‘deal with a demon’ business.” Fenris lifted a finger as he sat down.

 

“Oh, here we go.” Dorian all but rolled his eyes.

 

“Can we please limit the death sentence to possession?” He flicked all of his fingers to the side, and then laid his hand on the cleared table. The top was smoother than its edge. “It’s harder to figure out if you’ve made ‘deals’ with a class of being than to figure out if you’re an abomination.”

 

“That’s fair. Have you been talking with Solas, by any chance?”

 

“Perhaps. You must admit, I might as well kill you for making deals with Qunari. And didn’t you agree to answer any questions Cole might come up with?”

 

“Cole’s a spirit, and where did you hear that?”

 

“So was Justice, and the Chief mentioned you might regret it.”

 

“Point taken, and I already do.” Dorian leaned back, defeated.

 

“I don’t doubt it. Anyway, this seems reasonable. If I happen to be nearby, and you’re an abomination or sacrificing innocents, I swear I will kill you.”

 

“Thanks for that. I think.” But Dorian was smiling, stroking his mustache, and looking more like himself.

 

“What’s bothering you?”

 

Dorian sighed.

 

“You may have heard about my little side trip with the Inquisitor. To Redcliff.”

 

“Yes, I did hear that. Is the trip related to worrying you’ll become a blood mage?”

 

“My father was there.”

 

His _father_ , the almost _blood mage_.

 

“Oh. Are– are you all right?”

 

“I’m making deals with handsome but deadly elves that end in my death. Does that seem all right to you?” Dorian managed a smile.

 

“No, it doesn’t.”

 

Fenris sat awkwardly shifting and trying to find something to say that wouldn’t pry or hit a nerve.

 

“I know very little. I heard your father planned to do blood magic on you, tapping some of your family slaves. You escaped, and that ritual was never performed.”

 

The rotunda wasn’t silent. A crow cawed above them and flapped. A black feather drifted past the library balcony to the floor below. Apparently Dorian decided Fenris needed more information.

 

“My father was the last person I expected to turn to blood magic. ‘The resort of a weak mind,’ he’d say…”

 


	4. Choices

Dorian was on a mission with the Inquisitor, so Fenris wandered the hold and borrowed a book to read on the ramparts, but found that he was ‘brooding’ instead. A sound at the gates interrupted his thoughts.

 

Fenris snagged a passing guard. “Is that–?”

 

She smiled. “Yes. The Inquisitor is back.”

 

The Inquisitor, and the Inner Circle. Dorian.

 

Fenris’ heart did a little kick, a hop, and then it floated a bit more than before. He checked the shadows in the courtyard below. It was almost their usual evening meeting time. Dorian would want to wash up and unpack while Fenris waited in the Herald’s Rest.

 

Fenris dropped his book off and moved his brooding to the tavern.

 

Was it less time than usual before Fenris heard Dorian’s voice? “I was hoping you would be here. I wasn’t sure you’d heard we were back.”

 

Fenris turned from his drink at their usual table, tucked into a corner. “No one knows their own fame.”

 

“Excuse me?” Dorian settled into his corner seat, tankard in hand.

 

“The instant the Inquisitor’s party passes through the portcullis, all of Skyhold knows.”

 

“Oh.” Dorian rebounded. “So, what have you been doing?”

 

Fenris chuckled.

 

“Oh, no. We’ve done this before. I’m not telling another story about researching the history of some obscure tribe while you’re bursting with tales of slaying a wyvern, an entire Venatori cell, or a high dragon.”

 

“As if you haven’t killed a dragon.”

 

“One. We killed one high dragon in the Bone Pit, four years ago. You’ve been a part of dragon-hunting parties, what? Twice now?”

 

Dorian coughed. “Three times, now. This one spit lightning. If it weren’t for Bull, I’d have the burns to prove it.”

 

“How would burns prove it was lightning, not fire?”

 

The mage summoned a few sparks to dance between his fingers.

 

“External lightning burns are smaller. There’s usually at least two, entry and exit. The real damage is internal. But the Bull just kept pulling hits. I did my best to keep a barrier up on him, but _he_ might have lightning burns.”

 

“We should ask him later.” Fenris wished again he’d been there, instead of Bull. He would have to do something about that. But he didn’t want to end these discussions, and if they took this thing further, made it physical–

 

“Should we? He might get that glint in his eye.”

 

“Glint?”

 

_Glowing in Tevinter, whether he wants to or not._

_You’re mine, elf._

_He hates her so much._

 

“Glint. The one when he’s talking about a battle that nearly killed him like it was the best experience of his life.”

 

_Glowing in Seheron, not caring it shows through the canvas._

_I’m yours, Fenris._

_He loves her so much._

 

“Oh. That glint.” But Fenris was thinking about choices.

 

“What’s on your mind, Fenris? You seem distracted tonight.”

 

“Huh.” He shrugged. “I’ve been… brooding, I suppose.”

 

“You had to earn your nickname somehow, Broody. Anything in particular?”

 

“Yes, but it would be terribly dull to hear. Nothing dazzling here, Sparkler.”

 

“You’re brooding, so it’s probably important. Talking might help. It always helps me.”

 

Fenris smirked, tilting his head forward. “You might regret this.”

 

Dorian’s voice dropped suggestively. “Try me.”

 

The more Fenris thought about Dorian when he was away, the harder it became to ignore their game of innuendos. Fenris coughed.

 

“All right, but you’ve been warned.” He cleared his throat. “I’m wondering if I will ever truly be free.”

 

“Woof. Heavy stuff,” Dorian said appreciatively.

 

“Well, as you said, it’s me. Brooding.”

 

“I’d expect nothing less. Let’s discuss freedom.” Dorian characteristically tapped his chin, making a game of it. Lightening the load, the ass. “First, you’re not free here?” Dorian gestured around them: no schedule or orders to follow unless they were on the road, no one’s desires to look after except their own.

 

And yet…

 

“I told you about Hawke’s servant, didn’t I? Orana was never free in her mind. She did the same things in Hawke’s house she’d done in Hadriana’s house. Cleaned. Bowed. Feared Hawke would become angry. To my knowledge, he never gave her reason.” Fenris paused, shook his head before continuing.

 

“Have I been the same way?” Fenris’ thoughts spiraled into comparisons and patterns from his life. “How is what I do now different from what I’d done when I was a slave? I fought and killed for Danarius, I fought and killed for Hawke, and I fight and kill for the Chief and the Inquisitor. Did life change much in Kirkwall? I guarded Hawke whenever he asked, just as I guarded Danarius. How much real freedom do I have? How much choice?”

 

“We all use our skills and talents. What else would you have done?” He reached a hand partway across the table.

 

Fenris re-focused on the here and now and remembered he was talking to an altus raised with privilege and power, his the moment he wanted it back.

 

“Why am I asking you?”

 

Dorian pulled his hand back like the words had burned it.

 

“Because I’ve had to fight to make choices for myself?” He sounded annoyed.

 

“You had a lot more choices than I did. And when you cut ties, you had more resources.”

 

“What resources? I left with nothing.”

 

“When you ran from home, where did you go? Your _magister mentor_. When you ran from him? Your _magister aunt_.”

 

“Technically, she isn’t my aunt…” Dorian protested.

 

“Friend, then. When I ran, there were days when I nearly starved. With bounty hunters after me, steady work wasn’t an option: my employers would betray me. I kept moving until I found Hawke. He gave me both protection and means.”

“I… hadn’t thought about it before. I’ve always been grateful that my friends helped me, but… I hadn’t thought about the fact that if I weren’t an altus, they never would have been _able_ to help me.” He took a breath.

 

“We… have this in common, though,” Dorian continued. “The decision to leave was hard, and necessary, and we did what we had to, to survive.”

 

“Your fiancé. Livia. Did she practice blood magic?”

 

“Oh, perhaps she got around to it. People lower on my ‘likely to practice blood magic’ list have surprised me.”

 

Fenris remembered Merrill shutting up about vallaslin when he described _his_ tattoos.

 

“Dorian, you still had more choices.”

 

“I know. Yet because of the one choice I didn’t have, I chose to sacrifice everything. But we were discussing you. You _are_ free. You use your strengths, but you get to choose who you fight for, and who fights by your side.”

 

Fenris thought of Minato and the other Fog Warriors, of Hawke and his crew, of Ciar and the others who helped him kill slavers, of the Chargers. And though they’d never fought together, of Dorian.

 

“That makes a difference, I’ll admit. But how much have I changed?”

 

“Well, what have you learned since you became free? Skills I mean.”

 

Fenris smirked a bit at Dorian as he decided whether to play their usual game.

 

“Oh, here we go.”

 

###

 

But Fenris waved it off and adopted a thoughtful look. His answer distracted Dorian from his disappointment.

 

“I’ve learned to read.”

 

Since coming to the South, Dorian occasionally stumbled over some aspect of Tevinter he’d never noticed. This was one of those moments. Reading was so basic to him, but when would Fenris have learned? Slaves do what their masters tell them, and if the master cannot see the potential in someone as clever as Fenris, it’s squandered. What startled him, though, was that he seemed educated. He was knowledgeable and eloquent, beyond the skill of Southern nobles. He would easily have held his own in Tevinter court. Fenris even used Tevene phrases, the mark of a true scholar.

 

Dorian hesitated for a heartbeat and said, “That’s good. That’s huge, really. Has it changed anything for you?”

 

Fenris smiled painfully.

 

“You mean, ‘Have I used it.’ Vishante kaffas, but I’ll try not to take offense.”

 

You shit on my tongue. _Just as an example._

 

“I’m just having trouble imagining you not well-read, well-spoken. Were you ever not handsome?”

 

“I’m well-spoken.” What was the glaring about? Fenris took compliments better than this.

 

“Of course. This is news?”

 

“I’ve always spoken this way.”

 

“Then you must have always been handsome, too.” But Dorian’s mind continued to race. He must’ve learned to speak like that listening to conversations between Danarius and his peers. “What is your favorite book? Did it change you?” He was buying time, flailing, distracted from proving Fenris’ freedom.

 

Fenris took a deep breath. “I’ll answer your question, but first, Dorian, you need to promise me to never use ‘well-spoken’ again.”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re trying, you really are, but just don’t.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“No, you don’t, and I don’t have the energy to explain it to you right now. Just trust me.”

 

“All right, if it’s a matter of trust.” Dorian watched Fenris take another breath. When he seemed ready, Dorian prompted: “Your favorite book?”

 

“I have a special fondness for the first book I read, the Book of Shartan. It gave me a new perspective, one I cherish. It was a gift from a friend.”

 

Dorian seized the clue, a thread to pull.

 

“Did this friend teach you to read?”

 

“Yes. Hawke, actually.”

 

Dorian hauled the new subject out, like a prize fish from a lake.

 

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been wondering. Were you and Hawke – involved?”

 

“Yes. No. It’s complicated.” Dorian put on his best listening face, said nothing. “Why am I the one baring my soul today?” Fenris was irked.

 

“Because I fear I talk too much about myself.” Dorian used the tone of voice that suggested they bullshit for a while.

 

Fenris accepted the idea with, “Hmm, actually I’d like to hear more about you.”

 

Dorian’s toes tingled. “Purring like that won’t make me forget that you’re deflecting.”

 

“Was I purring?” Fenris added a distinct note of amusement, almost as arresting as the growl. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

 

“That’s kaffas, and you know it,” Dorian purred back. Then, in case, “If you don’t want to talk about it, I can drop it, though I am enjoying this little game.”

 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Fenris sat back and spoke in a less teasing voice. “I’ll tell you about Hawke if you tell me about one romance you’ve had. A complicated one.”

 

“Romance?” Dorian flicked through the physical relationships he’d had, or wished he’d had. Rilienus? Too simple: he hadn’t dared, nothing had started. Though the reasons he hadn’t dared were complicated. Might work. Carastan? Carastan Abrexius was very personal, still painful after three years, the relationship tangled in the direction his life had taken. Rilienus would probably do. “All right. You tell me about Hawke, and I’ll tell you about one of my relationships. A complicated one.”

 

“Where should I start?”

 

“The beginning seems reasonable.”

 

Fenris composed his thoughts, moistened his mouth with a sip of Ferelden beer, and launched into his story.

 

“It starts with these tattoos. The ritual that implanted them also ripped away my memories of people and events. Afterwards, I lived as a slave, and later I escaped and ran. Eventually, you tire of running.”

 

Dorian nodded. He’d read this in the Tale of the Champion.

 

“I hired Hawke through a third party shortly after the Ferelden Blight ended.” Fenris took another drink of beer. “Hawke was amazing. He blasted through the men sent to hunt me, leaving them all dead on the ground. Said he wanted to fight slavers and kept helping me. Tried to help a lot of people. He was the first mage I respected.”

 

Fenris’ voice was steeped in admiration when he talked about Hawke. Dorian gulped down a little wine.

 

“Over the next three years, we grew close, but how could I even encourage his interest while I was waiting for slavers to strike? Then, we found Hadriana. Hawke and the others helped me weaken her and kill her bodyguards, but I personally crushed her heart.” Even after all these years, Fenris clenched his fist when he said it. Then he sighed and relaxed to grab his tankard. “Maybe that’s what did it.” He took another drink.

 

“Hawke and I slept together once, that night. During, I remembered the things I’d forgotten. My entire previous life returned in flashes, but before I processed much, it disappeared.”

 

Dorian interrupted in disbelief.

 

“What, that happened… during sex? While you were…?”

 

Fenris smiled about it now. “At the worst possible moment, yes.”

 

“That had to be – disconcerting.” Dorian waved his drink vaguely.

 

“That’s putting it mildly. So soon after confronting Hadriana, it was overwhelming.”

 

Fenris chuckled gently, and Dorian savored the sound. “I’m sure Hawke doubted his considerable abilities when I tried to explain what was wrong the next morning. I cleared that up, but Hawke still didn’t understand why I left.”

 

“The memories?” Dorian laid a hand halfway across the table, but even now Fenris didn’t reach out to him. Not physically.

 

“Yes. What if they returned? What if they didn’t? Worse, my impression from that brief flash was that I'd be happier leaving those memories lost. Something I had wished for, something I thought I wanted, suddenly hateful. Yet, these memories were part of me. If I regained them in smaller doses, would they be all right? I had no way to tell. I thought about it all night and left Hawke before our relationship started.”

 

“Have you recovered any memories since then?”

 

“A few. For now, I’ll say there’s a reason sex triggered them, and perhaps my initial assessment was correct. However, there were good times, too. Nestled like grains of sand between the rocks. I’m glad I’ve recovered what I could.”

 

“And is this… a problem… now?” Dorian tried coy.

 

Fenris chuckled gently, with a touch of a wince. Is that a good sign, or bad?

 

“No. Like I said, perhaps only sex so soon after dealing with Hadriana triggered it.”

 

“I suppose it’s my turn, then.” Dorian quaffed his drink the way he had months ago, before introducing himself to Fenris. “I have always been an attractive man.”

 

Ah, good. Fenris smiled his intriguing frustrating smile.

 

“You don’t say.”

 

“Of course I say. If I don’t, who will?” They hadn’t done enough of this, this conversation.

 

“I might, if pressed.”

 

“Hmm, remind me to press you, later.” Dorian’s unconsidered comment was consistent with their usual banter, but this time Fenris’ eyes did something interesting. There was a smoldering come-hither look Dorian found distracting. He cleared his throat. “Now where was I? Ah, yes, I have always been stunning. Many of the young women I met at parties and such would fawn over me, but I had no interest in them. Some of the men, however, I found positively delightful. It was all fun and games until I met Carastan.”

 

“How old were you?”

 

Kaffas, was he really telling this story? But for Fenris… well, it was only fair.

 

“Oh, I was perhaps twenty-five. Carastan was beyond delightful. Clever and beautiful in court and in bed, the man dazzled me. He also adored me. Two years we were together. For such a relationship to continue so long… well, it’s unusual." Especially since they were exclusive. Some were upset at Carastan about that, but he'd pointed out that it was Dorian's choice.

 

“During those two years, my family became more insistent I marry the young woman I’d been promised to since birth. I objected, not least because of the woman. Livia Herathinos. She had no taste, no style, but she did have talent. Oh, yes, she had the genes to produce an Archon. Carastan was jealous that my family had managed such a match.”

 

“Wait. Carastan was jealous? Of you? For her?”

 

“Did I stutter? Yes, he was jealous of me.” Dorian realized he had snapped. “Sorry. That was uncalled for. Apparently this is still a touchy subject for me.”

 

“Perfectly understandable.”

 

He had stung, but Fenris forgave him. Dorian nodded his thanks. “Anyway, Carastan liked women as well as men.”

 

“Nothing wrong with that. But he was with you. He shouldn’t look for another.”

 

Dorian shrugged.

 

“It’s… expected. He’d look for both of us, since I objected so strongly to my fiancé. He’d spot a woman across the court. ‘Look at her,’ he’d say. ‘I like her. I mean, she’s nothing next to you, but you can’t give me a child.’ Needless to say, I never reacted well. He treated it like a game, at first, but the fifth or so time we argued, he realized I was actually upset!” Dorian switched back to his snotty impression of Carastan. “‘What did you think? That we would live together? Don’t be ridiculous. We have to produce heirs. You’re the scion of House Pavus. I certainly plan to do my duty for House Abrexius.’”

 

Dorian covered his eyes with a hand, grateful they were in a relatively secluded corner of the tavern. “He encouraged me to marry Livia. Maybe I should have. Then my father would never– but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was happy with Carastan, but it couldn’t last in Tevinter.”

 

“Never say that.” Fenris leaned forward, shaking white hair out of his eyes.

 

Dorian lifted his head out of his hand. He _wasn’t_ crying. “Which part?”

 

“That you should have married her. Even if it meant- wouldn’t you rather know?”

 

“I’d rather be with the Inquisition than with her, I can tell you that.”

 

“Good.” Fenris leaned back again, Dorian smiled, and they sat in comfortable silence. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. “How did it end?” Fenris asked after a moment.

 

“About as you’d expect. My father planned that damnable blood ritual to change me. I caught word and ran.” Dorian’s head shook slowly. “Such a hopeless case. I stopped at Carastan’s family estate and asked him to come with me. I guess I predicted his response, but I had to know. He rejected me, said I’d ruin his chances as well as my own. Which,” Dorian chuckled, “to be fair, was the idea. It ended in a row, I’m afraid.”

 

Fenris took Dorian’s left hand in both of his. He must look a mess. Fenris _never_ wanted to touch.

 

“And now you’re here.”

 

Dorian looked at Fenris, opened his mouth, and said, “Oh, Maker, if you break my heart, I’ll never forgive you.” Kaffas, he didn’t just say that! _I take it back, my heart is iron._

 

Fenris leaned over their tiny table to set one hand on Dorian’s chest, still holding his hand with the other.

 

“I’ll do my best to avoid that, then.”

 

A pleasantly terrifying thrill ran between Fenris’ hands, through Dorian’s body, like lightning. _Most of the damage is internal._

 

“You… will?”

 

“You expected something different?” Fenris’ eyebrow quirked.

 

“Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain. So I had no expectations.” Frustration pulled Dorian’s voice.

 

“You wouldn’t have said it if you’d given it more thought?”

 

 _No, I wouldn’t have._ But Fenris wasn’t leaving.

 

“I didn’t – don’t – want to ruin this friendship, whatever we have.” Dorian took a deep breath as Fenris’ lips curled up at the corners.

 

“If we don’t go get air right now, I will kiss you in front of the Maker and everybody.” Fenris was as close to Dorian as possible without leaving his seat. “Would that ruin whatever we have?”

 

Fasta vass. He had no script, but there was a right answer and a wrong one. His talks with Fenris were too important. And he did want more.

 

“It’s a risk.” Dorian squeezed Fenris’ hand and stood, smiling, drawing Fenris up. “Let’s get that air and find out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevene  
> Vishante kaffas - literally 'you shit on my tongue,' used here as 'you're being an asshole'  
> fasta vass - a swear, probably 'fuck everyone' or 'fuck it'


	5. Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Dorian kiss. Dorian freaks out a little. Fenris pulls out the #drama to help.

Fenris wore his armor around Skyhold, ‘for warmth,’ he said. Dorian had long suspected he wore it to keep others from touching him. The look intimidated most, and Fenris had a – thing – about touching. The only exception was the gauntlets. He didn’t wear gauntlets when he was planning to be social.

 

Now Fenris held Dorian’s face in bare hands and pressed their mouths together. Fenris was pleasure against his lips, then his tongue. He tasted sweet, he tasted of home.

 

Have you ever drunk a healing poultice? They taste terrible, it’s not recommended, but if you do, it will flow into you. Not just down your throat, but through your neck, head, shoulders, arms, gut, legs… it finds every little thing that hurts and fills it, knits it back together.

 

Dorian felt like that now, but instead of healing his body, Fenris’ kiss healed his heart, his aching loneliness. When the kiss ended, Dorian was shaken to his core.

 

“What is this,” he whispered. Then he shook his head. “No, no!”

 

“Lust?” Fenris teased.

 

“No! Lust I can handle.” Dorian ran a hand through his hair, touched Fenris like a hot griddle, and turned away. “This is more like curiosity and affection. I want to-to learn you: your skin and your dreams.”

 

“I hope there’s some lust in there.”

 

“Maker knows there is.” Dorian looked at Fenris, hair on end. “Fenris, I need to know: do you feel the same?”

 

 “Why dare say it, if I don’t?”

 

“It– Well, it surprised me.”

 

“Dorian, you know I do.”

 

“Oh. Good.”

 

Fenris laughed. He seemed drunk. More drunk than three beers at the Herald’s Rest accounted for.

 

“You’re hopeless. You’re lucky I have a thing for brilliant mages.”

 

“Brilliant mages?”

 

_As in plural? Hawke. Hawke is a mage._

_Why am I worried about this?_

 

“Come here. Let me tell you how I feel.”

 

Dorian allowed himself to be pulled in again. Fenris kissed him, but that’s not an adequate description.

 

The kiss started gentle, and sad, and sweet. Dorian moaned a little and opened his mouth to it. Fenris breathed harder, pulling Dorian in with hands behind head to kiss harder, Dorian matching muffled gasp for muffled gasp. Dorian lost his balance, and grabbed Fenris by the waist so he wouldn’t fall over, pulling Fenris closer. Their armor was… not comfortable, pressed together like that, and Dorian was just deciding to ditch it when the kiss broke and Fenris held him at arm’s length again, panting, eyes dark.

 

“That about sums it up.”

 

“All that, for me?”

 

“Yes, all that, for you.”

 

Dorian reeled, backed up a step. “I’m not sure I can…”

 

“Okay. I’ll back off.” Fenris held up both hands and stepped back.

 

 _Void, Dorian, do not let this crash and burn. Not this._ “Fenris, you matter. So. Much. To. Me. And that scares me.”

 

“Like staring into a bottomless abyss, knowing your choices are plunge into it or die.”

 

“Dramatic phrasing, but…” Dorian realized his head was spinning, just looking into Fenris’ eyes. “… yes,” he breathed.

 

“Me, too.”

 

“I don’t know if you’d care to… dance along the edge a little longer with me?”

 

“That could be… distracting, but yes.” Fenris grabbed Dorian’s hand to pace the ramparts. “I would like that, for a while.”

 


	6. Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen helps Dorian figure out why he's panicking. Cullen POV.

“‘Could be distracting,’ he says,” Dorian muttered as Cullen took his queen.

 

Leaves fluttered in a rare breeze, shifting the light in Skyhold garden’s gazebo. Cullen always liked to imagine the chess pieces were dancing at moments like this.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

Dorian blustered. He _must_ be upset about something.

 

“What? Yes, of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

“You seem a bit – distracted.”

 

“What makes you say that, Commander?” Dorian glanced into the garden.

 

Cullen grinned.

 

“You haven’t cheated once this game.”

 

Dorian’s eyes locked on Cullen’s face, so he allowed himself a smirk. It worked: Dorian finally smiled wide, mustache twitching.

 

“What? Me? I never cheat, Commander, and I’m offended that you would even suggest such a thing. I am here, in part, as a representative of the best of Tevinter –” his speech hitched _here_ , of all places “– and, as such, I resent the implication…”

 

Cullen got the idea.

 

He raised his hands, protesting, “All right! All right! I’ve no desire to start an international incident, ‘ambassador.’ I withdraw the implication, and the concern.”

 

But his backpedaling didn't satisfy Dorian.

 

“Now you’ve no concern for ambassadors to the Inquisition? Here I was hoping to unload my darkest secrets upon your capable shoulders, Commander.”

 

Cullen was surprised by that. They had become close acquaintances or perhaps even friends, but they weren’t into secret sharing. He decided that the best course would be to call his bluff.

 

“You may do that, Ambassador, though as Commander for the Inquisition, I may be required to report the juiciest parts to Leliana.”

 

“I would really prefer that you didn’t,” Dorian responded. “It’s nothing – bad – but it is – personal.” Dorian adjusted a piece.

 

Amazing what tactics you developed regularly playing chess with a person for six months.

 

“Well, in that case, perhaps you should unload your secrets on me as ‘Cullen.’”

 

Dorian cackled. “If I’d have known that falling for another man is what it took to be on a first name basis with you, Cullen, I’d have tried it sooner.”

 

Cullen was taken aback. He reviewed their friendship, realizing only now…

 

“You didn’t notice? I was not exactly subtle.” Dorian sighed. “Of course you didn’t notice. You weren’t looking.” He moved, palming the queen Cullen had just captured. That, at least, was reassuring.

 

How to save their friendship from this?

 

“I’m sure you have… excellent qualities, but I –”

 

Dorian held up a hand. “Stop, you’ll embarrass us both. Suffice to say my charms were lost on you.”

 

Dorian said it without rancor. Whoever this person was, they had painlessly erased any crush Dorian had on Cullen. He refocused on the board and took his turn. When he placed that queen, it would most likely be _here_.

 

“So, who’s the lucky man?”

 

“Fenris.”

 

Cullen sat up and smiled faintly across the board at his friend. “Fenris, who believes the entire Magisterium should burn to the ground?”

 

Dorian sighed as he made his next move.

 

“The very same. So, if he’s telling the truth about how he feels about _me_ , perhaps not so lucky.”

 

Cullen contemplated the board, the move, and the returned queen. Not _quite_ where he expected.

 

“So, pardon my density here, but you like him, he likes you… What’s the problem?”

 

“He _says_ he likes me.”

 

“You have reason to doubt him?”

 

Dorian seemed to slip into the Fade for a moment.

 

“Dorian?”

 

He shook himself and answered, “No, I have no reason to doubt him.”

 

“Aha.”

 

“You say ‘aha’ as though I’m making sense. If we like each other, why – pray tell! – am I hesitating?”

 

Well, if they were in the secret-sharing phase of this friendship…

 

“I didn’t start as Commander of the Inquisition.”

 

“What does that have–?”

 

“I started as a recruit at the Ferelden Circle.”

 

Dorian stopped moving.

 

“And when was this?”

 

“Just before the Blight.”

 

“Kaffas.”

 

Cullen knew why the Tevinter swore. He’d had Leliana get the lay of the land: point of view from various cultures, that sort of thing. In Dorian’s homeland, the Ferelden Circle was bandied about as _the_ example of everything that could go wrong when you had ‘an institution as backward as the Southern Chantry.’ In fairness, the mages’ lurking mistrust for templars had spawned abominations, demons, even a rogue piece of the Fade. The reports didn’t cover half of it.

 

So Cullen lifted one hand.

 

“Don’t worry; I will not talk about what happened there during the Blight.”

 

“Bless the Fade for that.”

 

That worked out well. Cullen hated talking about that time.

 

“When I first became a templar, before the Blight, there was a young woman, about my age. I met her before her Harrowing. First Enchanter Irving called her a genius, but he didn’t need to. Anyone could see her talent. I was smitten.”

 

Dorian raised an eyebrow.

 

“High standards, I see.”

 

Cullen shrugged.

 

“Have you ever known someone so brilliant, you can’t see anyone else?” Suddenly, she was standing before him, glowing with accomplishment, having mastered a difficult piece of magic. He smiled sadly. That seemed a lifetime ago. “If she hadn’t been there, perhaps I’d’ve noticed a better match, but she _was_ there, and I could not stop thinking about her. It didn’t help that it was literally my job to watch her.” Cullen shook his head, and the image faded.

 

“But I did not – _could_ not act on my admiration. Love that fast is terrifying: I’d known her less than a year, but she occupied all of my waking thoughts, and not a few of my dreams. But greater than my fear, any relationship would be an illusion. Even if she started it… She might never feel safe to say no, no matter what assurances I might offer. I would never be sure she truly cared for me.”

 

Dorian intoned, “‘What choice did they have but to love their master?’”

 

Cullen nodded. He didn’t know the quote, but it fit. Love without choice is meaningless.

 

“Your situation is different. In Skyhold, Fenris has a real choice. If he rejects you, everyone would support his decision. Even _you_ would face the Inquisitor’s wrath if you did something to… force the issue. And the Inquisitor might be the least of your worries.”

 

“I would never…”

 

“Good. Conversely, if he chooses you, it means more here.”

 

Dorian’s eyes shifted between the pawns on the board.

 

Cullen moved his piece. “You’re not worried about Skyhold. You’re worried because if you both return to Tevinter, Fenris would be trapped again.”

 

It took effort not to laugh as Dorian’s eyes rounded and his mouth fell open.

 

“Kaffas. That’s it exactly.”

 

“I guess you _are_ going back.”

 

“Not soon, I’m not!” Dorian blurted.

 

“Then I guess you’re interested in the long haul with Fenris.”

 

Dorian covered his mental scrabbling well, but the returned formality gave it away.

 

“Commander, I…”

 

“I’m not saying to rush. There’s no harm in waiting a little.” Then he took mercy on the panicking mage and gestured toward the stairs. “I find walking the ramparts helps. Go.”

 

“Thank you. It was… lovely. Thank you.” Dorian all but bolted in the direction indicated.

 

Cullen watched him go, turned back, studied the board for another minute, and mumbled, “Damn it, I’d’ve had him in three.” Then he put the pieces in their case.

 


	7. Revolt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian and Fenris refuse to take any kaffas from each other.

Dorian knocked on the thick wooden door a good hour before their usual meeting time. He suppressed the urge to look in the room’s window. Too high, anyway.

 

“Varric, I’m not in the mood for–” Fenris cut off as his eyes roamed over Dorian, his weary expression brightening. “Oh! You’re not Varric.”

 

Fenris probably wouldn’t be so happy once this discussion started. But Dorian had been mulling his thoughts for hours, and he needed input. 

 

“I’m reasonably certain that’s true, actually.”

 

“You’re a smart-ass posing as Varric. Get in here!” Fenris grinned, stepped back, and swung the door wide.

 

“Wait! Fenris. We need to talk.”

 

Fenris reexamined Dorian. He lost his smile and shrugged a little, but he nodded.

 

“Ramparts?”

 

Dorian turned to glance over the garden to the walkways in question. He’d already paced out most of his afternoon up there, contemplating, but it was reasonably private without being… distractingly private.

 

“That should do the trick.”

 

Dorian could hit the ramparts with a fireball, but the walk there was longer. Unless they wanted to fall off the roof into the garden.

 

They walked back into the main building and around Vivienne’s balconies. She was on the outer one, talking with the Inquisitor, so they didn’t talk until they got to the stairs to the Great Hall.

 

“So what are those mosaics about?” Fenris asked. Well, they needed something non-personal to talk about. Dorian considered the strange flat stone carvings the Inquisitor insisted on collecting. He opened the door into the Great Hall for Fenris.

 

“I don’t know, but I hope they’re valuable somehow. The Inquisitor has dragged us all over, scouring for pieces.” They crossed by several, then passed through a pair of doors into the garden.

 

“Only one is complete so far, right? Has anyone interpreted it?”

 

“One guess is as good as another. I’m told it depicts a sacrifice, and that it’s been retooled. Somebody didn’t like history.” Dorian returned Mother Giselle’s cold glare.

 

Fenris snorted. “Typical.”

 

Dorian remembered that Fenris’ first book was the Book of Shartan.

 

“What did you want to talk about?” They climbed stairs to the ramparts on the far side of the garden in silence for a bit.

 

“Want is such a strong word.”

 

“Dorian.”

 

“I am trying.” Dorian took a breath as they turned the final stairs. “I may have taken up your habit of brooding.”

 

“Ah, so it’s my fault you’re thinking things through?” Fenris was trying to lighten his mood.

 

“I wouldn’t go with ‘fault.’ Credit, perhaps.” Dorian stopped at the top of the stairs. The Inquisitor’s tower was right, and the ramparts stretched to the left. He ran a hand over his hair, checked his mustache. This would do. He stopped walking and turned to face Fenris. “With the direction our relationship is taking, you should know that I’ve made a decision. After Corypheus has been defeated, if I’m still alive, I will eventually return to Tevinter.”

 

Fenris’ eyebrows pinched together.

 

“Dorian, why would you do that? You always talk about all the things you hate in Tevinter.”

 

“The Inquisition – the Inquisitor – has given me perspective. I think I could change Tevinter. I could make a difference.”

 

“You could make a difference _here_.”

 

“Being a powerful mage does not mean the same thing here that it does in Tevinter.”

 

“Would you – consider staying?”

 

Dorian felt a stupid flare of hope.

 

“With the Inquisition?”

 

“No, with me, dumbass.”

 

Dorian’s his mustache twisted strangely on his face as he was torn between joy, humor, and regret. “I-I… Oh, I want to. But Tevinter is my home. When they catch word of what we found in the Temple of Mythal… I have to.”

 

Fenris stepped close. A thrill tingled through Dorian as Fenris wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, pulled him close until their foreheads touched.

 

“Stay,” Fenris whispered. Cloves and leather.

 

Dorian closed his eyes and said, “I will stay… until Corypheus is defeated.”

 

Fenris breathed him in. “Stay till we stop working. We could just be us, here. No slaves and magisters. It doesn’t define us here like it would there.”

 

“You can’t come with me, can you. Tevinter would be murderous.”

 

Fenris nodded slowly, moving Dorian’s head, too. “If you go, you’re putting a time limit on how long we can be together. I’m distinctive. The Demon of the Fog. The Elf with the Lyrium Tattoos. The Terror of the South. I would not survive Tevinter, let alone Minrathous.”

 

“I have to be in Minrathous. Attend the parties, rub elbows with sympathizers, and build backing, support, power.”

 

Fenris released his head suddenly, backed away.

 

“Political power.” Dorian raised his hands.

 

“We both know the source of political power in Minrathous. Magic.”

 

“Magic,” whispered Dorian at the same time as Fenris. Then he said, “Wouldn’t it be ironic if I built a well of power using the very methods I was condemning?”

 

“What are you condemning?” Fenris asked quietly.

 

“We’ve talked about it before. Blood magic, the type that produces victims.”

 

“And other types of magic? Other sources of power?”

 

How easily Dorian fell into discussion with Fenris, especially over serious topics.

 

“I support experimental magic. I use it myself. Sources of power other than blood magic? If you found one powerful enough, that might be worth–” Dorian cut off that line of thought when he realized who he was talking to: a former slave who was part of a magical experiment, one that made him into a source of power for his master.

 

A former slave glowing blue in the fading sunlight.

 

On the upside, he was also muttering, “I will not kill him,” over and over. If that could be considered an upside.

 

“Kaffas, Fenris, that needs to come with some caveats. No victims. No victims or unwilling participants for any magic: experimental, blood, or otherwise.”

 

“Nice try, mage.”

 

Dorian fell back a step. Mage.

 

“But, if everyone participating wants to contribute…”

 

Dorian’s ignorance did him no favors. Fenris shoved him against the wall of the Inquisitor’s tower. Dorian reflexively cast a barrier as his back contacted stone. Barriers glowed green around each of them.

 

“I was _willing_. I _competed_ for these markings.”

 

“Wha-what?” _Brilliant, Pavus._

 

Fenris pounded his bare fist into the stone wall next to Dorian’s head. Fenris hit the stone again with each word: “I. Competed. For. The. Fucking. Honor.” A loose chip of stone flew away from the lyrium-blue fist and ricocheted off Dorian’s barrier.

 

Fenris’ wheat-yellow eyes reflected green barrier and blue tattoos. The pain there would have broken Dorian’s heart, if he weren’t so pissed.

 

“You. Will. Not. Touch me like that again.” Dorian shoved back. Hard. Surprised, Fenris stumbled back. “Disagree with me all you like, but I’m not going to shoot lightning at you, and you may not _touch_ me when you’re angry.”

 

“I-I’m sorry. I thought I had my anger under control. But for _you_ to be spouting such _ridiculous_ ideas and limitations…” Fenris’ regret blended with his simmering rage, cooling it. His tattoos sputtered and faded, flickering.

 

“I don’t care about controlling your _anger_. Control what you _do_ when you’re angry. If you touch me in anger again, _I will leave you_.”

 

Three guards approached from the garden, hands on sheathed swords. Someone had seen their fight and mistaken it for enemies on the ramparts.

 

“Sers!” the guard in the lead addressed them as they approached. “We’re here to help you neutralize the threat, though clearly it’s unnecessary.” She craned between the crenellations as if considering checking the rocks below for bodies.

 

“No,” Dorian spat. He’d have to apologize to her later, but just now he was still too angry. “You did an excellent job. Threat neutralized.” As he stalked past Fenris toward the stairs back to the garden, he checked him in the shoulder. “Well done.”

 

The guard blinked at Fenris.

 

“Ser. What… should we put in our report?” She glanced between Dorian and Fenris, both glowing fading green, probably putting it together.

 

Fenris resisted the urge to hit the wall _again_.

 

“There was no threat to the Inquisition.” Fenris looked at their blank faces. Since when did Inquisition peons look to _him_? “I will talk with the Commander in the morning, fill out whatever paperwork he requires.” The soldiers exchanged relieved glances, and Fenris wondered what he’d gotten himself into. “Kaffas.”

 

He stalked past them, back to his room.

 

###

 

Cullen automatically held out a hand for the missive, but the runner gave it to Fenris, instead, before continuing out the left-hand door. He suppressed disappointment. As though he didn’t have enough on his desk.

 

Fenris scanned it, sighed, and returned to their conversation.

 

“I appreciate it, Knight-Cap- uh. Commander. It’s embarrassing enough I lost my temper with him, that you should hear about it. I’m glad there will at least not be a record of it.”

 

“Call me Cullen, and I see no harm, as long as you keep your end.”

 

“I will not touch him when I’m angry again, even without our agreement. I would lose him.”

 

“Not worried about the charges I’ve promised you?”

 

“I’d deserve it all.” Fenris leaned against the ladder and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, letter flaring above his head like some crazy new hat. “I’m such a fool.”

 

Cullen chuckled.

 

“If there were a record of every time I lost my temper… Did I mention I nearly hit the Inquisitor in the head?”

 

Fenris dropped his hands and his eyebrows rose. “What? You?”

 

“Not with my fist or anything. I threw… something. Against that door, actually.” Cullen nodded at a door into his office. “As the Inquisitor was walking in.”

 

Fenris twitched his head sideways. “I suppose you’re lucky the Inquisitor likes you.”

 

Cullen laughed again. “That I am. But we were talking about you and Dorian.”

 

“Ugh, that man. How can he be so idealistic and yet so _stupid_?”

 

“You two have a knack for coming to me for exactly the advice I’ve got.”

 

“What?”

 

“I know about being idealistic and stupid.”

 

Fenris got a haunted look, and Cullen remembered him, four years ago, standing with Hawke over Meredith’s red-lyrium form. They’d all taken their licks that day, but Fenris had taken more than his fair share, often leaping between Hawke and the fist of some giant statue. How had anyone in Kirkwall survived?

 

“I wish I had seen it – and acted – before that day,” Cullen confessed. “Before she invoked the Rite.”

 

Fenris sighed.

 

“You couldn’t. You weren’t ready. And even if you’d been ready, Meredith hid her insanity well.”

 

Cullen recognized Fenris’ expression from his own mirror. Guilt.

 

“Anders wasn’t your fault any more than Meredith was mine.”

 

“Perhaps we can both grow larger than our shortcomings, then. Thank you, Cullen. I will try to remember he’s not ready, yet.”

 

Fenris showed himself out the middle door to the main building, and re-read the message on the bridge. It was a formal invitation, or as formal as possible with only candle black ink and vellum on hand. Apparently Dorian was out of gold foil. He had sketched bad scrollwork on the edges of the letter and on each capital letter. It must have taken an hour, even sloppy.

 

 _F_ enris, _T_ error of the _S_ outh

is formally invited to a diplomatic discussion at

the _H_ erald’s _R_ est,

our usual table,

at sunset,

 _D_ orian _P_ avus attending.

 _W_ herein will be negotiated cessation of hostilities and terms for future interaction.

_RSVP_

 

Fenris leaned against the side of the rookery bridge and allowed himself a private chuckle. The formality was overblown. It highlighted his sense of fun, but also showed that Dorian had screwed up and must make repairs before they returned to… to Fenris holding their heads together, asking him to stay. Long term. Just stay. The phrasing – cessation of hostilities – and the epithet the slavers had given him… to accept this invitation, he would have to admit wrongdoing, too.

 

_Never touch me in anger again._

 

Kaffas. Fenris covered his eyes and forehead for a moment and then stalked across the bridge to borrow a scrap of vellum and some ink from Varric.

 

###

 

Dorian stared out the window, watching his runner cross the bridge directly below. How they located anyone was beyond him. The runner appeared again on the ramparts to the right of the bridge, headed for the Herald’s Rest. Was Fenris drinking this early? He spaced off, still worrying about word choice and whether the invitation was even the right approach. Was the RSVP too much? Could he call the runner back? Send a runner for a runner? No, ridiculous. Then, suddenly, Fenris exited Cullen’s office.

 

He was holding the invitation.

 

“Kaffas kaffas kaffas kaffas kaffas…” Dorian cut himself off when he realized he was whispering out loud.

 

Fenris paused, read the invitation – laughed! – but then held his head… and continued across the bridge. Striding fast, but not running.

 

Dorian opened a book, bracing for yelling in the library. He decided to move the discussion outside as a courtesy to others. He started planning in his head. _Dorian!_ he’d yell. _Fenris, please, keep your voice down…_ he’d respond.

 

Dorian almost had the Fenris in his head calmed down before he realized that the real one was taking his sweet time. He looked up from his book. There was a small piece of velum on the table outside his alcove, folded in half and standing vertically.

 

What did it say that Dorian was disappointed? But he read the blocky text inside:

 

Fenris, Terror of the South,

will be in attendance

 

and released the breath he’d captured when he saw the RSVP. Then he smiled. Smart ass.

 


	8. Revolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian and Fenris learn how not to dish the kaffas out in the first place.

Dorian sat in his usual seat at the Rest, watching anyone coming up the stairs. He’d thought it was a good idea to come early to ensure that their table wasn’t claimed by anyone else tonight, but the long wait had made him nervous, especially as the light dimmed in the courtyard out the narrow window. When was sunset behind mountainous horizons? Light lingered for hours after the sun disappeared.

 

###

 

Dorian jumped as Fenris trotted down the stairs. He’d been up on the ramparts, watching the sun. Did he go when the sun touched the highest mountaintop? When it was half-sunk? When it had disappeared? He’d compromised with the half-sunk option. Then he went through the eerie top floor of the Herald’s Rest, down to the second floor.

 

Fenris saw his mistake when he realized Dorian had been watching the door up from the ground floor: he would put the whole dilemma together. He had to distract him.

 

“I got your invitation.” _Good one, Fenris. Way to distract with wit and charm._

 

“Thank you for responding. You’d be amazed how many guests these days don’t do the common courtesy.” The table had a full bottle of Fenris’ favorite vintage and two mugs. Dorian’s mug was half-full. Dorian poured for Fenris, drained his tankard, and poured for himself from the same bottle.

 

“Thank you.” Then, to keep up the formal pretense, “You’re too kind.”

 

Dorian’s mustache twitched, and Fenris realized this structure, this game, might be exactly what they needed to keep the conversation flowing.

 

Perhaps even to keep it civil.

 

So they talked about trivialities: The weather last time they were in various parts of Thedas, recent escapades of the Chargers, banter from the Inner Circle. It was pleasant, but Fenris got impatient. As host, it was Dorian’s job to start the official business, but he kept dodging it. Fenris realized that he was playing another game, like their game of innuendos. How artfully could Dorian dodge a subject his guest was impatient to breach?

 

Fenris pulled out a blunt hammer. “Stitches and Dalish had a fight.”

 

Dorian’s light brown eyes froze as he said, “Oh?” but the rest of him was still smiles and graciousness. Fenris was sure if he hadn’t been talking with the man for months now, he’d have missed it.

 

“Stitches is always trying to improve those poultices of his. For some reason, he decided hare fur would be ideal. Dalish didn’t appreciate the innovation.” Fenris raised his eyebrows significantly.

 

“Sorry, why not?”

 

“I forget: you probably haven’t met many Dalish.”

 

“How do _you_ know anything about them?”

 

“I spent time with Merrill and her former clan. Since Kirkwall, some clans have helped me and my friends. The hare is sacred to one of their deities, Andruil.” Fenris leaned forward in his seat. “She didn’t want the goddess to disapprove of him.”

 

“I guess I don’t understand.”

 

Fenris shrugged.

 

“Neither did Stitches, at first. They worked through it.”

 

Dorian looked at the table, a nearby post, his drink, then back at Fenris. “Did she beat it into him?”

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hit you.”

 

“Fenris, it was a near thing.”

 

“I know. Ugh. I hate that I shoved you. I will _never_ touch you again when I’m angry, or… hit things close to you. Do anything to make you fear me.” His guilt was making him sick.

 

“What will you do instead?”

 

“What?” Dorian – had lain off accusing him? This was Dorian in problem-solving mode. 

 

“Trick I learned in school. Instead of giving in to temptation, you do something else. What will you do?”

 

This wasn’t the argument Fenris had expected. It was as it said on the mock-invitation – negotiations to cease hostilities.

 

“I could yell, but that doesn’t seem much better.”

 

“Depends. Do you want me to yell back?”

 

Fenris rocked in his chair, tried a smile.

 

“Hmm, a shouting match doesn’t have much appeal.”

 

Dorian made a disappointed mou, but continued with his questions.

 

“What calms you down?”

 

Fenris remembered pacing his mansion in Kirkwall.

 

“Walking clears my head, but I can’t just walk away,” Fenris mused.

 

“Why not?”

 

“If I’m not there, we can’t discuss anything.”

 

“Yes, last night’s discussion was highly productive.”

 

“Good point.”

 

“If you walk, do you calm down?”

 

The halls, stairs, broken tiles of the mansion. They should have been creepy, but they were soothing.

 

“Yes.”

 

“How’s this: I promise we’ll talk when you’re calm. Asking for time to walk will tell me you’re upset. ”

 

Fenris considered.

 

“You could walk with me.”

 

“You were probably too upset for that yesterday. But, yes, we could have volatile conversations walking, if you prefer.”

 

Fenris nodded.

 

“So, we’ve worked through what I need to change. Your turn, magister.”

 

“Fenris, is that necessary?”

 

“It’s your training, your blood. You _think_ like a magister. Your thoughts trailed right down the same paths that led to this!” Fenris lifted his thickly white-traced hand, and the tattoos started to glimmer.

 

Fenris looked at them, then at Dorian. “Venhedis. I’ll be back.”

 

“I’ll come with you.”

 

“Dorian…”

 

“I have thoughts, but they won’t be useful if we say ‘magister’ and you have to leave for fifteen minutes.”

 

“How about this: I’ll walk till I’m calmer. Run maybe. Then we’ll walk together and talk.”

 

Dorian smiled.

 

“Agreed.”

 

###

 

Dorian grabbed the bottle and his tankard. Fenris drained his own before sprinting up the wooden stairs to the ramparts, door closing behind him a floor up. Dorian walked almost to the stairs and leaned on the rail to watch the dancers on the floor below. Marvelous how they were always a hairsbreadth from colliding, yet never did.

 

The ramparts. That’s where he came from. Not any of the towers between. He was watching the sun set. Dorian laughed.

 

“Good to hear _that_. You make up?” Sera must have approached while the dancers held his attention.

 

“Did we make up? I suppose we’re still working at it, but it’s looking good, Sera. Thanks for your concern.”

 

“This part of it?” She flitted her hand to indicate Fenris’ sudden retreat. “Saw him glowing blue. Can’t be a good sign. Unless it’s a _really_ good sign, but then, why would you be here?” How had she heard about _that_? Dorian didn’t even know if it was true.

 

“In this case, it’s not a good sign. But we can probably work through it. I– I still think like ‘big people.’”

 

“Knock that shit _right_ off, will you?”

 

“I’m trying, Sera. Got any tips?”

 

“Me? Pft. My usual for big people is arrows.”

 

“Mmm, good point.”

 

“Bwahahaha! You’re hilarious, you are! Oy, your glowy-man is back. Luck, yeah?”

 

Sure enough, Fenris was hopping around the dancers below, maneuvering to the stairs.

 

“Thanks, Sera.” She had disappeared.

 

###

 

Fenris said nothing, but twitched his head to show he was ready for Dorian to follow. As they climbed the stairs, Fenris appeared winded. Had he really run? He wasn’t glowing, so whatever he’d done had worked.

 

Dorian waved to Cole on the top floor, but out of Fenris’ sight so he wouldn’t lose any memories. Cole said they didn’t fight together, so Fenris forgot him. They turned left, climbed another half-dozen stairs, and discovered a small party in the tower. Several people talked, ate, drank, and read stories from a large book. No one paid them any attention as they turned left again and exited into the night air.

 

Dorian dove right in, partly to avoid giving Fenris a chance to work himself up.

 

“You’ve questioned me about where the line should be with blood magic. Well, pondering last night, I realized it’s all about choice. And that’s also what slavery is about: choice.” Explaining his whole thought process might make the most sense, help Fenris understand the politics. “Why are the victims of blood magic are most often slaves? Because only their masters defend them, if anyone does. If the templars enforced the laws against blood magic, especially for slaves, it would…”

 

“It would never work,” Fenris interrupted. Because he already understood the politics.

 

Dorian sighed. “It would never work.”

 

“Then why even bring it up?”

 

Time to jump to the point, then. “They would have to be free.”

 

Fenris stopped. _Of course it would shock him!_ Dorian continued on a few paces, stopped, and turned back to regard Fenris. His fists clenched and unclenched, and he glared through his fringe of hair at Dorian, head tilted forward. _He’s… angry?_ Fenris stalked forward again, caught up with Dorian. Dorian increased his pace, let Fenris tell him what was wrong without prodding.

 

“What about your objections to ‘inescapable poverty’?”

 

“Instead of slavery, perhaps we need a temporary servitude: you sell a set number of years, not your whole life, the lives of your children. But we cannot have people disappearing into their masters’ care. That’s how they are never missed. That’s how maleficarum hide their victims.”

 

Fenris slowed marginally. “It’s not a real end to slavery, but the change might be small enough you can survive it.”

 

By unspoken agreement, they turned down the stairs so they wouldn’t traipse through Cullen’s space so late.

 

Dorian gave his head a shake. “You never cease to surprise me.”

 

“Which part is a surprise? The part where _it’s still slavery_ or the part where I _don’t_ want you to _die_?” Fenris stormed down the stairs, and Dorian let him lead the way.

 

“I thought you’d be happy I agree with you.”

 

“I’m _afraid_ , Dorian. Instead of killing me, they’ll kill you. That’s not better.” Fenris clipped his words. “You’re doing this for me. I’ve killed you.” He threw up his hands as he stalked down the stairs.

 

“I _thought_ of it for you. No, not _for_ you, but because _you’ve_ challenged me consider how power works in Tevinter. Now that I’ve thought of ending slavery, I can’t fathom a better way to accomplish my goals.” Dorian caught up. “Words and edicts will not be enough. The fuel for blood magic is _slaves_. Freeing slaves will cut off that source.”

 

“Dorian, this is a terrible idea. Don’t hitch my cause and yours together.”

 

“Why in all the limitless Fade not?!”

 

“To start, they assassinated the last Archon to declare slavery illegal.”

 

“Of course, but he was an idiot.”  Dorian had half an eye for the uneven stones at the bottom of the stairs.

 

“Humph.”

 

“Not for his cause, mind you, but for his tactics!” They continued down the next set of stairs, toward the lower courtyard, the outer wall of Skyhold on their right. “He just stood up in front of everybody and announced that all Tevinter slaves were free. He took everyone by surprise, he never built support for the idea, and his rivals were already accusing him of having ties to the Southern Chantry. That foolish speech gave them more ammunition.”

 

Fenris smirked as he said, “You realize he was a martyr for your cause. You should use him.”

 

“That–” Dorian opened his mouth for the next word, stopped walking for a moment, and closed it. “That might work. Opponents might even reconsider making new martyrs.” He caught up again as Fenris waited at the end of the stairs.

 

“We can only hope. Look, Dorian, if you can make this work, you can be proud. But it’s not the reason I was angry the other night. You said something–” and here Fenris clenched his teeth– “about building power.”

 

“I thought about that, too.”

 

Fenris huffed and started walking again. “Did you sleep last night?”

 

Dorian chuckled. “Not much,” he admitted. He explained his idea as they passed by the medical camp in the lower courtyard.

 

“Magic is how political power is built in Tevinter _now_. But that makes it easier to build political power by other means. Each magister works alone, sowing chaos so that powerful rivals can’t organize. Someone in the Magisterium might stay low level, not pose any obvious threat, but build alliances among the lower-ranked magisters. The ones that are too new or too idealistic to rely on real blood magic. These magisters could work together, pool our most powerful magic. Any one coalition member would not need to be more powerful than the blood-mage-abomination magisters.” Dorian caught Fenris frowning as they reached the bottom of another set of stairs. This one ran next to the central building, back to the upper courtyard.

 

“I don’t like it,” Fenris said as he started up the stairs.

 

Dorian exclaimed, “By the Void, why not?” Then, to himself, “I suppose expecting to be surprised would spoil it.”

 

“What if they turn against you? How will you defend yourself without power? If someone recruits them away from you…”

 

“Fenris, if that happens, then it was never possible.”

 

“Exactly. You shouldn’t go.”

 

“Come with me,” Dorian blurted, and then stomped up the stairs. “No- no! I take that back, it would be suicide. Powerful people would remember who you were, who you _are_. They would try to take you.”

 

“I would never let them.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t. You would be killed.”

 

“Unless I was yours.”

 

And there it was. The reason this would never work. Dorian stopped in the patch of dirt partway up the stairs. Torchlight flickered behind Fenris’ white hair, leaving his face oddly dark.

 

“No. You need to have a real choice. Imagining you were playing at-at ‘us’ would kill me.”

 

“Good.” Fenris smirked as he turned back to the light and continued up the stairs.

 

“That was a test?!” Dorian threw his hands low and to his sides, palms toward Fenris. He did _not_ stomp his foot.

 

“You think I would be owned again?” Fenris called over his shoulder. “Even by you?”

 

Dorian stared another moment, dropped his arms, and shrugged. “No. _Especially_ not by me.” He followed Fenris up the stairs to the upper courtyard. Another set of stairs started in the corner between the armory and Cassandra’s practice field. They headed for that.

 

“I may not even survive Corypheus,” Dorian pointed out.

 

“We’re both putting our lives at risk for the Inquisition. I’m confident if you die, you’ll save the world doing it.”

 

“You’re saving the world, too.” _The difference is you probably won’t die._

 

“Huh. Doesn’t seem like it, digging around in old ruins.”

 

“And killing the demons you find there, don’t forget. But yeah, it’s not always glamorous.”

 

Fenris brooded as they passed the Rest on their left. Firelight streamed out the windows, and the stomping dance nearly drowned out Marion’s rousing song. 

 

“If we survive, are we capable of staying together? You drive me crazy, Dorian. In the good and the bad ways.”

 

“At least I _do_ drive you crazy in the good way.”

 

“We shall see if the good outweighs the bad.”

 

"We might do all right. Look at tonight." 

 

"Tonight?" 

 

“Let’s review the highlights. First: this walking thing works.”

 

“It doesn’t hurt that you’re not being an ass.”

 

“Second, not being an ass works.”

 

“Good luck with that.” But Fenris was smiling his beautiful half-smile.

 

“I do all right if I think things through.” They reached the stairs back up to the ramparts and started climbing. “Third, tomorrow we may die.”

 

“Or drive each other crazy, don’t forget that.”

 

“Or drive each other crazy. The good kind.”

 

“Humph.”

 

Dorian sorted out his thoughts.

 

“I feel good about this. I was terrified, thinking about what you would become if we returned to Tevinter. What that would make me. Talking this whole mess out helped me realize we won’t let that happen. Whatever it takes.”

 

When they reached the walkway, Dorian tried to turn left, but Fenris nudged him right with a spiky pauldron.

 

“Barracks,” he explained. That tower’s bunks might be occupied.

 

“Maybe we’ll have to part later, but we might figure something out instead.” Dorian slowed his pace so he could watch Fenris as he asked, “What about you?”

 

Fenris shook his head. “Void, Dorian, you’re trying. This conversation helped me see that, I suppose. I’m glad I heard you out, I’m glad you’re listening. I’m glad I didn’t– I’m glad we successfully negotiated the cessation of hostilities.”

 

Dorian smiled. “Me too. If you had hit me, I might have fireballed you. By reflex, you understand. I’d have to explain to Bull why you were all crispy and charred.”

 

Fenris chuckled. They had followed the ramparts to the second-tallest tower in Skyhold. He opened the door for Dorian. No one used this tower. The stone-and-wood walls blocked most of the fading light, allowing only a little from above.

 

“I wonder what the Inquisitor plans to do with this.” Dorian peeked under canvas, peered up the staircase.

 

Fenris stopped in the center of the room, gazing speculatively at the ceiling.

 

“I’d wager this tower has a spectacular view at the top.” He blinked at Dorian with a little too much innocence. Dorian’s heart picked up pace.

 

“What did you have in mind?” Dorian smiled his get-me smile.

 

“I want to kiss you again, if you’ll let me. Tell you I’m sorry. Then we might see where it leads.”

 

Dorian was tired of panicking, but tiring didn’t stop it. His mind raced.

 

What if he and Fenris weren’t compatible for _where it leads_? The kisses two nights ago showed otherwise, but Dorian couldn’t be sure. What if they didn’t work, what if Fenris got wise and left, what if Corypheus’ dragon ate them both?

 

More frightening, what if it did work? What if they stayed together and were happy until they died of old age or treachery? What would that even be _like_?

 

Dorian’s brain seemed determined to sabotage him. He’d been engrossed with getting back on good terms with Fenris, but now Fenris wanted to kiss him and his mind only provided reasons it still wouldn’t work.

 

_Get a grip, Pavus. It’s a kiss, and maybe sex. You can figure out the long-term later._

 

“Got a ladder for that abyss?” Dorian said. _More bravado, more confidence! Do not ruin this for yourself._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Venhedis" is an untranslated Tevene swear.


	9. Tower Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dorian and Fenris earn this work its "Explicit" rating (the first time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not want to write this. It’s messy. It’s painful. Experienced as they are, friends as they’ve become, they don’t know each other yet. A HUGE thank you to Havvke  
> http://havvke.tumblr.com/?soc_src=mail&soc_trk=ma  
> for telling me that’s why I needed to do it, anyway!
> 
> Inspired partly by this nsfw image:  
> https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/feelgoodart/149899985162  
> Yes, that’s the Inquisitor, and no, I don’t care. Fenris could totally pull that off.
> 
> Also partly by Now by Dragonflies & Katydids on Archive.  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/4826234

How was this tower empty, this late? No small parties, no couples, no music or stories. Well, Fenris supposed, one couple. They climbed the stairs, then two ladders before they were on the flat roof, crenellations surrounding them and obstructing half of the view.

 

It was freezing. Below, everything nestled in the walls, behind layers of sun-warmed rock. Here, mountains corralled and strengthened the snow-capped wind, harsh against their skin.

 

Fenris reached for Dorian, hoping for some warmth. The press of lips and body almost distracted him from the chill until he realized they were shivering together.

 

“This may not be my best-considered idea,” he admitted.

 

“Let’s get out of the wind,” Dorian chattered.

 

Fenris nodded, and then led the way down the ladder. He headed for the second ladder, further out of the tower, but Dorian caught his elbow.

 

_What._

 

But then Dorian wrapped his arms around Fenris and kissed him. He forgot about cold and unexpected elbow grabbing as the taste of cream and cardamom poured through his body. Unfortunately, Dorian ran his fingers lightly over Fenris’ arms, and it stung. Fenris shoved him back a step before he caught himself. Instead of continuing to shove, he grabbed Dorian’s head and kissed him hard, trying to tell him without words what he needed. Dorian kissed back as hard, but ran his hands lightly over Fenris’ armor, brushing skin occasionally. Frustrated, Fenris shifted to Dorian’s neck, trying to think. Grab his hands?

 

Dorian rasped into his ear, “I wouldn’t mind if you pushed me _now_.”

 

Pleasure surged through him, followed closely by skin-deep pain as his tattoos lit up. Fenris shoved Dorian, hard, to the stone wall, too much armor pressing between them.

 

“They do glow,” Dorian breathed.

 

Fenris tried to put everything he needed from Dorian into his kiss. He drowned in sweet cream and spice.

 

Dorian hissed and fumbled for a buckle on his armor. “This fucking buckle hurts.” Fenris watched his fingers as he undid it and moved it out of the way. He reached for Fenris, but there was no way he’d find the hidden straps – Fenris loosened his own chest plate.

 

“Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?” Dorian continued unfastening his own buckles. Fenris removed his armor, watching as Dorian removed his padded armor arms and disentangled the elaborate straps and belt holding his outfit in place. By the time Fenris was down to leggings and sleeveless leather, open in the front, Dorian was in a loose, asymmetrical collared shirt that flapped open at the waist, leggings, and the complete legs of his armor. He bent low to undo the smaller buckles of his boots, and his shirt slid up, abs and back and the top of his hip.

 

Fenris was drawn to the exposed skin. He touched, explored hip to abs. Dorian froze, breath catching. Fenris placed another hand on his back and pushed the shirt toward his head. Dorian stood to lift his arms, but Fenris caught the shirt around his wrists just above his head, twisting. _This will give me time to tell you what I need before you touch me again._

 

“Tighter,” Dorian breathed into his ear. Fenris forgot about telling Dorian anything and pushed him against the wall again. Dorian yelped and jumped away from the stone. Kaffas, that’s probably cold.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Dorian’s wild eyes were blown dark. He stepped to one side so that his back was against one of the smooth wooden pillars in the wall.

 

“More,” he said.

 

Fenris smiled and pinned the shirt and Dorian’s wrists above his head. The shirt strained as Dorian pulled against it and Fenris ran his bare hand over his chest.

 

Now Fenris… _played_. He touched Dorian all over with varying pressure and repeated anything that caused him to pull against the shirt or breathe harder. When Dorian was positively squirming, he tried nipples.

 

The first touch made Dorian’s hips twitch. Dorian’s nipples were _wired_. Fenris made a surprised, pleased noise, licked his thumb and forefinger, and then touched one nipple. He looked into Dorian’s face, gauging every reaction. His fingers slipped: a small squirm, but no more.

 

He gripped gently, and Dorian breathed, “Oh, more of that, please,” with just a hint of desperation. Fenris gripped and relaxed on the nipple until its tip pebbled. Then Fenris rolled it a tweak between his fingers. Dorian gasped and writhed, pulling against the shirt again. He flicked with a blunt fingernail, soothing with a fingertip, over and over, and Dorian arched away from the wood of the wall, pressing against Fenris. Fenris groaned.

 

He leaned closer to moan into Dorian’s ear, “I’m glad I have your attention. Soon, it will be your turn. I do not want you to touch me lightly, and I don’t like surprises. Touch me hard, or not at all. Do you understand?”

 

“I’ll touch as hard as you want. Just let me touch you,” Dorian gasped.

 

Fenris allowed the shirt to become untwisted and pulled Dorian’s hands loose. A phrase of something Dorian said when they first kissed caught in his brain, wouldn’t let go until he said it.

 

“Learn my skin, Dorian.” Fenris gripped Dorian’s hips, kneaded his ass. “I want you, fasta vass, I need you.”

 

Dorian started with both hands in Fenris’ hair. His left hand tangled and tugged at the longer hair on top as he ran his right hand over the stubble of his undercut, down his face, to the front of his shoulder, chest, stomach, pressing hard along the way. He moved both hands to slide the sleeveless leather off Fenris’ shoulders.

 

“Off. This needs to be off, _now_.”

 

Fenris let it fall behind him. Then he pressed against Dorian, chest-to-chest, hands behind Dorian’s head, kissing him hard and glowing bright.

 

Dorian flashed lyrium-blue as his mana topped out and overflowed, and he broke away from the kiss. “Ah, kevesh venhedis fasta-vass kaaaaaafas!” Oops, forgot to warn him. Lyrium experiments had turned Fenris into a walking, breathing mana factory. Dorian was involuntarily tapping into that. He stopped moving as he figured it out: guilt for something he didn’t do.

 

“I want this,” Fenris moaned in his ear. “ _Fuck_ yes!”

 

Dorian answered with an involuntary groan and leaned his head back to rest against the wood. Fenris plundered his neck, tasting skin and hickory smoke, smelling cardamom. Dorian pressed his hands over arms, back, neck, and face, mapping, _learning_ Fenris’ skin. He hitched an armored leg over Fenris’ hip. Was that his cock through two layers of leather, or just his imagination? Fenris pressed against it, needing the sensation, needing more. He fumbled and pulled at straps on the leg wrapped around him, loosened Dorian’s boot, shoved his foot back to the floor before switching to the other leg. Dorian gripped him over the shoulders, trying and failing to catch his breath.

 

“Fuck me,” Dorian gasped. “I want your cock in my ass, I want you to come inside me.”

 

That sounded so good, but he didn’t exactly have oil with him… Fenris dropped the other leg, backed up a little.

 

“Is that– wise?”

 

“Yes, it will be a mess. I. Don’t. Care. Fuck. Me.” Dorian shoved Fenris back further for space to pull off his long, armored boots and shuck his leggings. There were ways around no oil. Fenris peeled his own leggings off, revealing his breeches, which quickly followed.

 

Dorian’s leather pants had crumpled at his feet. Fenris stepped on them glimmering to press against him, but instead of kissing his mouth, he captured Dorian’s right hand and laved it wet, sucking and nipping the fingers, making Dorian moan and babble.

 

“I wish we could skip that part although _kaffas_ that feels _good_ and my future self will thank you but right now I just want you to _fuck_ me.” This excessive talking thing was getting distracting. Dorian cast his leg over Fenris’ hip again. Fenris grunted, released Dorian’s hand to grab his knee. His other hand, on Dorian’s chest, pinned him to the wall.

 

Fenris tugged Dorian’s knee higher to make it easier for him to reach his own ass. Then he dropped knees-first onto the bunched leather leggings, using the hand on Dorian’s chest for balance and hitching Dorian’s knee over his shoulder.

 

“Open yourself. Be ready for me.” Fenris watched Dorian’s face as his lips closed around the tip of Dorian’s cock.

 

Dorian watched as Fenris took it halfway, chanting, “Oh, yes, oh fuck yes, take my cock. You look so good.” Fenris stopped, humming impatiently. Dorian continued, “Oh, no, please don’t stop. Suck me off.”

 

Fenris was sure that Dorian would continue like this, so he stood up.

 

“You say you want me to fuck your ass, then you say you want me to suck you off. _Which is it_ because I’m getting confused.”

 

Dorian panted, “I can’t – have both?” His voice was rough with desire, which helped get Fenris back in the mood.

 

“Would that work for you?”

 

“Suck me off. Fuck me. I promise to love it.”

 

“Only if you get yourself ready while I suck you.”

 

“Deal.”

 

Dorian hitched a leg up, reached behind himself, and inserted a slicked finger into his ass. There was something of Tevinter in his forthright manner, but the obvious pleasure was all Dorian.

 

Instead of dropping again, Fenris leaned in. That sudden taste of Tevinter made him check: did he want this? His body screamed at him, _Yeah, I want this!_ Dorian’s body pressed against his, bare leg wrapped around him again, and it would be hard _not_ to want this man. _Okay, body, noted._

 

Emotionally? They’d cultivated friendship – and more – for months now. Fenris was a better person because of Dorian: not just useful advice but a sounding board. He’d wondered… but Fenris could not tell when Dorian’s flirting had gotten serious.

 

“Fenris, stop thinking and _touch me_.” Dorian grabbed Fenris’ head with his free hand and pulled him in for a kiss. It burned down his throat, spreading from his gut to every muscle in his body. He returned the kiss until he was panting as much as Dorian again.

 

Fenris sank to his knees and pulled Dorian’s knee to his shoulder. He took Dorian’s cock: Deeper, deeper, until it nudged deep in his throat. Fenris swallowed.

 

“Kaffas venhedis Maker fuuuuuuck.”

 

Fenris slid off his cock, then back. He found the speed and technique that made Dorian gasp or swear and grab his head or scrabble at the wall, then gradually increased that speed until Dorian stopped fucking himself and all of Dorian’s leg muscles under Fenris’ hands were rope before its breaking point, shivering and taut.

 

Fenris reached up to ghost lightly over Dorian’s balls. Dorian’s heels dug into the floor and his head and shoulders pressed into the wall as the rest of his body arched back. Fenris had to pull back so he didn’t choke, had to swallow fast. _Oh, this is fun._

 

Dorian relaxed and Fenris stood, dropping Dorian’s knee and catching him. Dorian gripped their cocks together, spreading spit and semen from Dorian’s softening cock to Fenris’ hardening one.

 

“Take me when I’m – like this. Take me now.” Dorian’s voice had lost all urgency. He was relaxed, sloppy from his orgasm, but with an undercurrent of desire. “I want to – want to feel you come.” The man had a _hell_ of a lot of desire.

 

Confusion caught Fenris: he wanted to give Dorian everything he wanted, always, and then he remembered – twelve _fucking_ years ago – wanting exactly the same thing for Danarius. Fear flashed: another magister.

 

_Not a magister. Dorian. My. Choice._

 

The moment passed.

 

“Hold onto me.”

 

Fenris lifted both of Dorian’s knees, pressing him harder against the wall. Dorian grabbed his shoulders, rolled his hips forward, and wrapped his legs loosely around Fenris’ waist. Fenris moved his hands to Dorian’s firm ass, fumbled the exact position for a moment, and slid his cock inside.

 

Dorian had already come, but he made a new noise of pleasure. The sound reverberated through Fenris, soothing and exciting the burning tattoos. Fenris thrust inside him, grunting, using the smooth wooden wall for balance and bouncing Dorian slightly. Dorian leaned forward to put more weight on Fenris’ shoulders, off his hands, and help set and maintain a rhythm. Dorian’s legs tightened as he panted over Fenris’ shoulder.

 

This was _work_ : battle, hours of training, a marathon. This was _pleasure_ : intense, exhausting, burning along muscles and nerves and tattoos. Fenris pressed Dorian back against the wall, hooking an arm under one knee.

 

“Guh! I don’t– bend that way.”

 

“Crap.”

 

“Hold my– my knees.” Dorian wedged his fingers into the stone wall next to the wood pillar and pulled himself up a little.

 

Fenris pressed Dorian against the wall to hold him in place, and then hooked one hand under each knee. Dorian rolled his hips, lazily experimenting with the angle. Fenris set up a steady rhythm, searing pleasure under his skin as Dorian squeezed him with arms and legs and ass. He watched his own orgasm build as an objective observer. _There it is: nothing to do with me._

 

“Fenris, I want to watch you lose control.”

 

Suddenly, all the detachment Fenris _thought_ he had shattered like glass against rock. The tattoos flashed their brightest, fueling Dorian’s pleasure and looping back on Fenris’ orgasm. Every thrust reminded Fenris of a step on the path here:

 

_his guilty look, reading the Tale of the Champion_

_feeling safe, talking about dangerous things_

_walking the ramparts in the evening_

_stupid thing to do, pushing him_

_Dorian’s smile, when they met_

_his kiss, hot and sweet_

_the cold of their skin_

_warm breath_

_Dorian_

_Dorian_

 

“DOOORIAAAN!”

 

Fenris moved until he couldn’t anymore, until he was panting, leaning against Dorian, holding his knees.

 

“That – that was – amazing. Fastavas. Unuh.” Fuck it. Fuck them all.

 

“Huff, oof. I’d prefer – just me.” Dorian cracked his eyes open. “I’m not sure – I could stand – to share – you.” Dorian slipped against the wall.

 

Fenris gave an out-of-breath chuckle as he released Dorian’s legs. But legs didn’t work right yet, and the two of them slid tumbling into a pile of limbs and discarded clothes. They wiggled and shoved around until Dorian was comfortably sprawled across his clothes and armor, inside-out leggings under his knees. Fenris ended up nestled against Dorian’s left shoulder, the padding of one armored boot running along his back. The other boot served as Dorian’s pillow.

 

“This is so strange. The ‘future’ talk should be next, but it’s already done.”

 

Fenris groaned. Yeah, this talking thing would definitely take getting used to. However–

 

_I want to watch you lose control._

 

–Dorian was worth it.

 

“I suppose a review wouldn’t hurt. Fenris, I don’t want to lose you, or limit you, or–”

 

“Or shut up, apparently.” Fenris grinned.

 

“ _Especially_ not that!” Dorian lifted his head, flopped it back down again. “But I will if it bothers you.”

 

“Only for a minute. Let me figure out breathing. Before I have to talk.”

 

Dorian was probably trying to laugh. “Yeah. Good point.” Breathless?

 

Fenris’ brain was not keeping up. After about a minute, Fenris realized Dorian might not be used to his sense of humor yet. So he snuggled closer, arm wrapped over Dorian’s chest. “Dorian,” he said, “I don’t want to lose you, or limit you, or–” Fenris broke off with another smile when Dorian _actually_ laughed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevene  
> So... ends up Dorian swears a lot during sex. I figure Tevene profanities are pouring out of his mouth mostly without regard to actual meaning, though kevesh is said by someone low on health or stamina. Besides kaffas (shit), and fastavas (fuck/screw them all), I didn't find translations.


	10. Ramparts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris broods on the ramparts while waiting for Dorian to return from a mission.

Fenris stood on the ramparts, brooding, he was sure. He’d found the crenellations with the best view of the Inquisitor’s party approaching from each direction. In exchange for stories about his ever-colorful missions with the Chargers – fodder for future books, no doubt – Varric sent word when the Inquisitor’s party was coming home.

 

When had that started? A month ago, now. They’d taken two months of flirting, exploring whether another mage – _this_ mage – would be any good for him. Weeks after they started their physical relationship, Fenris realized knowing Dorian’s arrival time would help. And it did. He still thought about Dorian whenever he had a free moment, but at least he wasn’t _always_ brooding on the ramparts.

 

Just when Dorian was climbing the last few miles home.

 

_teasing smile across_

_a tankard and a table_

_too big and too public_

 

Fenris shivered as the valley funneled a gust to Skyhold. What was it about powerful mages? Hawke and Dorian had each pulled him under, drowned him in sensation and senseless devotion. Either was capable of destroying Thedas. Sometimes Fenris imagined either could summon Fade-hands to tear apart any opponent stupid enough to face them. Watching Hawke fight the Arishok had damaged that perception, but Hawke still won. If nothing else, either had the clout to win an audience with rulers of Thedas: Archons and Kings and such. Somehow it didn't comfort Fenris that world leaders would presumably realize they were all in danger once Dorian or Hawke assassinated the first few.

 

There had been non-mages. Minato had helped him heal until Qunari stole her. Isabela had been interested, persistent, and exactly what he needed when he finally accepted her advances. She had introduced Fenris to Zevran, asking only to be allowed to watch. They’d compared tattoos for her, and (as she said) everyone won. Their sexual philosophy had rubbed off on him, in a manner of speaking, and he spread it to a few of the people he led, killing Tevinter slavers. One he’d slept with, another he hadn’t. A third had been tough and sure until sex came up. Fenris had only held him that night, but the reaver had left, anyway.

 

But mages. Goddamn powerful mages. Was it the confidence? The danger? Each was a factor, but Hawke and Dorian were truly irresistible because they could dismantle the world – and didn’t. It was easier to demolish than to build, but both were out there fighting to stop Corypheus and the Venatori. Well, out there, but Dorian was coming home today.

 

_dark eyes daring him_

_smooth perfect warm honey skin_

_“So they do glow.” Clever tongue_

 

Fenris shook himself from his thoughts. It had been weeks since he’d even seen Dorian, let alone–

 

_details whispered in his ear_

_clawing lightly across perfect back_

_and lower_

_pressed against him pressed against the door_

_delicious suggestions_

_playing across mind’s eye:_

_all would come true tonight, better than he imagined_

 

Good thing he was wearing his heavy leather armor. He was half-hard already. Fenris pressed against the wall, pretending to lean in for a better view of a party starting through the gates. His heart lurched pleasantly. It was the Inquisitor’s caravan, more wearied and less pomp than usual. He found Dorian by his impeccable outrageous hat. He loved to tease Dorian about it, but the hat was dashing. Maker, if Dorian ever knew, he’d never hear the end of it.

 

Fenris usually left as the last horse set foot on the bridge. Then he would saunter to the gate – happening by when Dorian arrived. His eagerness was clear the third time he appeared ‘casually’ from the same direction, but Dorian allowed the illusion. As he did in so much.

 

_scared, spilling, circled by his arms, pleasing but part of the problem:_

_no control_

_no real control over anything._

_“If you wanted to, you could- you could-”_

_“I couldn’t. If you don’t want something, I will not do it. You-you make me happy. I want you to be happy. The rest is knafeh.”_

_and Fenris had stayed_

 

He stared longer as Dorian approached across the bridge. He tipped his head back to look at Skyhold, and Fenris saw his face, tired and hopeful.

 

And soon close enough to touch.

 

Fenris ran down the stairs.

 

###

 

Dorian swung a leg off his horse and stepped down, flipping the reins with a practiced smirk to the stable girl with the equally practiced catch and insolent bow. Then he scanned the small welcoming crowd. He hadn’t seen his ama- the elf sauntering down his usual staircase.

 

A flash of white to his right warned him before his hat vanished and his arms and lips were full of tattooed elf. Dorian was vaguely aware of Sera’s cheer, Cassandra’s disgusted noise, and the Iron Bull’s joyous guffaw vying with Varric’s “Go for it, Sparkler!” Vaguely, because Fenris was very insistent, pressing hard against him and encouraging him to press back.

 

“I didn’t come _that_ close to death this time,” Dorian declared when he came up for air, half-hard yet flustered by their audience.

 

Fenris pulled him down to groan into his ear, “I haven’t seen you in weeks, and now the Chargers are leaving tomorrow morning.”

 

“Fasta vass,” Dorian swore more quietly. “I wanted more time with you. I suppose this makes it your place, so they can find you in the morning.”

 

“Or yours, so they can’t.” Fenris placed his hat squarely back on his head.

 

Dorian’s laugh echoed on the stone walls and disappeared into the hubbub of the lower courtyard’s market.

 

“I like the way you think. But your place would be responsible. Plus, I like your bathing facilities better.”

 

Fenris’ lips twitched as he started for the stairs closer to the main building.

 

“I know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame Cole.
> 
> fasta vass - a swear word  
> amatus - a term of endearment


	11. Nice Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More smut, this time after Dorian and Fenris have figured each other out. A dose of humor for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the tasteless pun. This is what happens when Fenris and Dorian have discussions in my brain.

First public kiss notwithstanding, the sight of Fenris and Dorian together was not uncommon enough to attract attention. Most of the crowd dispersed as their various idols went about their business. Fenris and Dorian strode to and through the main hall, up more stairs, around Vivienne’s balconies (she wasn’t in yet), and out onto the balcony overlooking the gardens. There, they chose the last door. No sooner was the door closed than Dorian found his arms full of eager elf again.

 

“Fenris,” Dorian breathed.

 

“Mmm?” may have been a word, if his lover’s mouth hadn’t been full of wind-burned ear.

 

“Amatus.”

 

“Mmm,” hummed against his itchy neck.

 

“Fenris. Stop.” Surprised, he did, and they both worked to catch their breath a little. “No, let me rephrase that. Pause. A moment.”

 

Fenris took a step back.

 

“Sorry, but I’m disgusting. I have to remove this armor and get sand out of – places – before I’ll be in any fit state for you.”

 

Fenris smiled that subtle half-smile that drove Dorian wild. Did he know? He must know. Did he know? But Fenris was talking. “Oh, really? You want to clean up before you get dirty? Seems a waste.”

 

Dorian groaned. “Your voice is always sexier than I recalled. Is it my memory, or does it constantly get sexier?”

 

As Fenris chuckled, Dorian unbuckled his armor in the way that always got his attention: slow and intensely nonchalant. It worked. He licked his lips, parting them slightly as he watched. “Care to join me?” Dorian teased.

 

The smile was back and Fenris began taking off his armor. The gauntlets, sadly, were first.

 

“Keep those for later,” Dorian directed as his mind offered options.

 

Fenris set them on the table next to the bed. Then he took off the chest plate and carefully undid the straps to his pauldrons. The way his armor worked, that included pieces to protect his arms. “You’re falling behind, mage,” Fenris observed as he set the whole mess on a stand.

 

“So I am.” A few more belts and buckles, though, and he was caught up. Outer layer now slung over the back of a chair, he wriggled his tired fingers as he slid out of his gauntlets. Where to set them? Fenris’ room was austere, a little crowded by its double bed. He needed the chair’s seat. The floor for armor tonight. Dorian sat down to remove his greaves and boots. As he stacked those with the gauntlets, a wave of exhaustion caught him. “Kaffas.”

 

Fenris smiled as he removed his leather jerkin, greaves already on the stand. “Rough day?”

 

“Just… long. Yes. The Hissing Wastes are further than Minrathous, I swear. The Inquisitor drove the caravan hard today to make it here this evening.”

 

“I should thank the Inquisitor.”

 

“Me too. Given the choice, I’d rather be here and fatigued than miss you again.”

 

Down to only his protective leather pants, Fenris straddled Dorian’s knees and undid buckles in his second layer of armor.

 

“What are you doing?” Dorian tried not to snap, tried not to imagine what he would miss if exhaustion overtook him.

 

“Something for you, for a change.” The white tattoo lines disappeared unfairly under the dark leather.

 

“I can do this.” Dorian, snared by Fenris’ smiling eyes, tried to figure out why he was objecting.

 

Fenris leaned down to let his breath tickle Dorian’s ear as he said, “I’d much rather you save your energy for other things.”

 

Other things. Involving tattoos and removing leather and that voice. “Good point.” Dorian allowed Fenris to unbuckle and strip him until he, too, was only wearing his leggings. He needed to stand, but that required willpower.

 

Fenris handed him a plate snagged from the dining hall: meat, bread, and an apple. “Eat.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“I already had some. It’s good.”

 

Dorian ate the simple fare as he watched Fenris make more preparations. Dorian would miss his elaborate vanity and washbasin in the morning, but Fenris had scored a small soaking tub. A huge pot steamed next to the tub, coated in flames: Sera’s fire elixir. Fenris removed the pot’s lid. He had found fresh rinds from citrus fruits: clear, sharp orange and grapefruit scents filled the room. He heaved the hot water into the tub. By the splash, the bath already contained a smaller amount of cooler water.

 

“You’re too good to me.”

 

“I got the idea from you.”

 

“I’m too good to you.”

 

Fenris threw a small cloth at Dorian’s head. He had just enough coordination to catch it.

 

“You added citrus.”

 

Fenris shrugged. “They were making juice. My scavenging skills had to come in handy some time.”

 

“Your charm, you mean.” Dorian stood as Fenris returned to take the soft cloth and dishes and help him out of his leggings. He settled in the tub on his own power though. As the heat of the water soaked into Dorian’s aches and pains, easing them away, Fenris meticulously washed his front. It was amazing and arousing and Dorian couldn’t do anything about it just yet.

 

“If you can stand, amatus, I’ll get your back.”

 

“You don’t have to-”

 

“I want to.”

 

“-call me that, just because I did. It slipped. I meant it, but you’re not required to-”

 

Fenris kissed him silent. “I want to.”

 

Dorian smiled against his mouth, then stood, dripping, knee-deep in the tub. Fenris made appreciative noises as he washed his back. The water cooled tantalizingly on his skin. Then Fenris finally shucked his leggings and hopped in. The small tub – oh darn – forced him to sit between Dorian’s knees, pressed against his chest. They soaked until the water lost its heat to the air in the room.

 

By the time Fenris dried them both off and led Dorian to bed, he felt almost personable again, except he still couldn’t move much. But for once he relaxed and let himself be taken care of. Soon he was naked under the blankets, Fenris curled up behind him. He grabbed a tattooed hand firmly and kissed it thoroughly: little trailing pecks and teasing licks on the palm and fingers that made Fenris hum. The bath had left grapefruit scent and a bitter orange flavor on his skin. Just as he was ready to turn over and see what else he was capable of, Dorian fell asleep.

 

###

 

Fenris listened as Dorian’s breathing slowed from sharp and eager to soft and snoring. Ah, well, there’s still morning.

 

Fenris slid his arm out of Dorian’s grasp. The man complained in his sleep, interrupting the gentle snoring, until Fenris stroked his dark hair, over and over. Then he made the most contented sigh. Fenris snuggled closer and joined his amatus in sleep.

 

###

 

Dorian woke hard, but gradually. He hadn’t slept this well in weeks – he found the rocky ground and his absent lover had both posed obstacles. He was still curled on his side, but Fenris had flopped onto his back in the night, one arm still trapped under Dorian’s head. Dorian stretched, allowing lingering arousal from last night to rekindle as he bumped legs and skin and warm body.

 

Dorian turned over to look and nearly laughed out loud. Fenris’ white hair stuck out wildly. He'd flung his arm to the wall next to the bed. His mouth hung open, and a line of drool led to a puddle on the pillow.

 

Dorian trailed a finger down Fenris’ face, brushed the hair out of the way, and kissed his forehead. “Beautiful.”

 

“Mmm, Dorian,” Fenris mumbled in his sleep.

 

Dorian smiled. He’d always wondered whether sleep talkers spout nonsense, or their deepest truths. “I’m here.” Dorian caressed down an arm with careful pressure. “Is there something you want?”

 

Fenris smiled that irresistible half-smile in his sleep. “You,” he mumbled. “Just you.”

 

Dorian caught his breath. He remembered a conversation they’d had last time they’d been in Skyhold together. “I think we can manage that.” And he got to work.

 

###

 

Fenris woke with a gasp from a highly erotic dream to a highly erotic reality. Dorian’s lips, teeth, and tongue formed a trail down the tattoos outlining his abs. He wondered what time it was, then looked at Dorian and forgot to care. “Good morning for me,” he mumbled sleepily.

 

“Oh, good,” Dorian purred, mouth hovering above the head of Fenris’ cock, “you’re up.” Then he slid his mouth over it, and Fenris’ skin ignited with pleasant intensity, burning away the last remnants of sleep.

 

Fenris gasped again and arched against the sheets, encouraging Dorian to take more of his cock. He did, letting the head rest briefly in the back of his throat on each stroke, the show off. Fenris wove a hand through jet-black hair just to feel his head move. His other hand gathered a fistful of sheets. Instead of bucking more, he groaned out semi-coherent praise for Dorian’s clever mouth.

 

When Fenris felt like he might lose control entirely, he tapped Dorian, their signal to change positions. Dorian gave him one more stroke before he complied; Fenris nearly changed his mind.

 

After that, Fenris lost track of time entirely.

 

###

 

“Fenris? Thirty minutes before you hit the road,” Bull said, voice muffled by the door.

 

Fenris was in no – position – to reply intelligently.

 

He was naked except for his gauntlets, white tattoos just glimmering blue against his golden skin, adding an eerie light to the darkened room.

 

“Don’t cry out.” Dorian taunted softly before he thrust his hips upward again. The surge of light from those fascinating tattoos told Dorian that his lover was coming unraveled. “Unless you want your Chief to hear you.”

 

Dorian was lying on his back, knees slightly bent. Fenris was straddling him, upright, and leaning back for the right angle to accept Dorian’s cock. Dorian pressed his heels into the mattress with each thrust.

 

Fenris’ cock was straining between them. Dorian wrapped a hand lightly around it. “Lean back a little further,” he rasped as he stroked.

 

Fenris complied, and Dorian maintained enough control to hit the sweet spot for Fenris, to drive him over the edge while Bull stood right outside, wondering if Fenris was really in his room.

 

“I’m coming,” Fenris called, and Dorian wondered if the Iron Bull heard the roughness in his voice or saw the lyrium glow around the edges of the door.

 

Because he _was_ coming, and it was _glorious_. Fenris tipped his head back, exposing blue tattoo lines glowing at his throat. His muscled chest and abs arched back as he grabbed Dorian’s thighs, his jaw dropping in a soundless moan. Fenris was not usually quiet: Dorian knew how much restraint silence must take.

 

Not that he had restraint to spare for anything else. He clawed at Dorian’s thighs with his gauntlets and shook with the force of his orgasm. His cock spurted, warm and wet over Dorian’s stomach and chest.

 

Dorian felt the last tendrils of control slip away as Fenris’ ass tightened in coordination with the clawing and shivers. “So beautiful,” he breathed, and then thrust once, twice, three times into Fenris and came. He lost all motor function after a few more thrusts, and Fenris finished him by dropping and lifting his ass from Dorian’s hips. A small, rational, and unquivering part of Dorian wondered how Fenris could move at all after that orgasm, but the rest of him held on for the ride. Sheer pleasure shot hard lines from his balls to his shoulders, arms, and toes, tracked by pure bliss.

 

Spent, Dorian slid out and Fenris collapsed, wrapping around Dorian’s right side. Their breath recovered in gasps and sighs. A gauntlet dug into Dorian’s ribs.

 

“Sorry to interrupt.” Dorian heard the smile in Bull’s voice from outside. “Sounded like a good one. Nice glow, too. See you in thirty.” Bull’s heavy steps signaled him walking away.

 

Dorian and Fenris cracked up.

 

“Oh, I am never living this down,” Fenris said.

 

“You? I have to fight with the man. There’s half a chance he won’t tell the rest of the Chargers.”

 

Dorian groped for the rag on the bed stand to clean up.

 

Fenris moaned as he struggled out of his gauntlets.

 

“How will I survive wanting _that_ for Maker-knows-how-long?”

 

“Just remember how intense it is after a break.” Dorian smiled and twisted to set the gauntlets back on the table while Fenris cleaned up. “Besides, I thought you’d gone wanting for years, in Kirkwall.”

 

“Long enough to convince myself it didn’t matter.”

 

“And does it matter?” His nonchalance fooled no one.

 

Fenris propped himself up on his elbow to gaze at Dorian with wheat-yellow eyes.

 

“This matters. To me.”

 

Dorian failed to suppress a terribly sappy grin.

 

“Me, too.”

 

Fenris kissed him fiercely. Then he flopped onto Dorian and laid his head comfortably on his chest. He was like a blanket, only better.

 

“Ugh. Moving is bad.”

 

Dorian couldn’t move any more than his lover, but he could tease.

 

“How are you going to get ready? You should be down there soon.” He pressed a hand along Fenris’ back. “Not that you should hurry.”

 

Fenris gestured to the bag near the door.

 

“Already packed.”

 

Dorian smirked. “Huh.”

 

Fenris gave him a look that came dangerously close to killing him, but Dorian kept smirking until Fenris gave up and lay his head back down.

 

“All I have to do is stand, clean up, dress, pick up the pack, navigate the stairs, and–” Fenris groaned. “Next time we do this right before I leave, you should take it from me.”

 

“Oh?” Was this sage advice or part of their game of innuendo?

 

“Horses,” Fenris swore into Dorian’s chest.

 

Dorian realized what he meant and almost regretted their fun, but put on an evil grin.

 

He maneuvered his mouth closer to Fenris’ ear and rasped, “Every time your ass hits that horse, remember us together here, just like I’ll remember when my leggings chafe the scratches you left me with.”

 

Fenris groaned and squirmed.

 

“Leave it to you– Wait, what scratches?” Fenris lifted his head.

 

“Check my thighs. I might be bleeding,” Dorian teased.

 

Fenris hopped to his knees with endearing celerity. The stinging scratches must have been deep, because Fenris’ black eyebrows pinched together until Dorian cat-stretched and tucked his hands behind his head, grinning. Fenris stroked one thigh gently, smiled, and shrugged.

 

“I– meant to do that.”

 

Dorian chuckled.

 

“Step one complete. Now you need your clothes.”

 

Fenris rewarded his smart mouth with a pillow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> amatus - a term of endearment


	12. Doom Upon... Tevinter?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris continues to overthink it, but all this thinking might pay off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Or get them killed. You know, one of the two.

Stitches glanced at Fenris, who was drawn tight between hope and fear as they all passed through the first of Skyhold’s gates. The reports said that the entire Inner Circle survived Corypheus in the Valley of Sacred Ashes, but reports were sometimes wrong. For the thousandth time, Stitches was grateful that Dalish was in his unit of the Chargers.

 

Fenris brooded at the bridge in front of him in the fading evening light. Stitches sighed and looked up at the approaching edifice.

 

Skyhold had weird arrow slits around its heavy portcullis. Facing the gate, the ramparts’ level had one left arrow slit and three right. The level above had one left and none right. The healer had never noticed this oddity before. Tonight, though, someone had put a bright light in each of them. What were those?

 

Suddenly, Stitches shouted, “Fenris!”

 

“What?” Fenris was startled but not looking the right way.

 

“Look up, friend!”

 

“I’m looking right at you.”

 

“No, look up there.” Stitches waved a weary hand at the front of Skyhold.

 

Tonight, each of those five arrow slits held a lit sparkler.

 

###

 

“How did you find medlars in the middle of nowhere?”

 

Dorian smiled back at Fenris soaking in the tub as he spooned out a little of the mushy, sticky fruit for himself. “You will find that Skyhold is actually the middle of everywhere.”

 

Fenris raised an eyebrow. Dorian shrugged. Fenris took the opportunity to admire the way his muscles moved under his bare skin.

 

“I asked Mae to send Carastian candies to Josephine.”

 

“She couldn’t just send the fruit?”

 

“Ends up medlars don’t keep all the way from Tevinter. Believe me, I tried. Josephine found a grove in Orlais.”

 

An incoming spoonful of the reddish-brown fruit caught Fenris' attention. It looked rotten. It tasted heavenly. The bletting was just right: the sweet fruit was slightly tangy. Sometimes foods would remind Fenris of medlars: dates traveled much more easily from Tevinter, and the flavor was also like rich, unsweetened applesauce. Those fruits were missing the hints of cinnamon, vanilla, and wine and the indescribable medlar flavor. Fenris sucked on a large seed until it was clean, and then spit it into a dish Dorian had found for the purpose.

 

Fruit was one of the few things he missed about Tevinter.

 

“We haven’t made promises beyond Corypheus’ defeat. Well, he’s defeated. If you’re of a mind, I’d like to discuss your plans for the future.”

 

“My plans?” Dorian’s tilted head added sauce to his expression. “What about yours?”

 

Fenris shrugged. “You might inherit a seat on the Magisterium. We’ve talked about improving Tevinter from within once the Venatori are wiped out. Was that just talk?”

 

“No.” Dorian set the spoon and rind on a small table. “But for now, I plan to stay with the Inquisition.”

 

A bird fluttered in Fenris’ chest. “Why?”

 

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re not in Tevinter. You can’t even visit Tevinter.”

 

Fenris smiled. “What if I’m leaving the Inquisition?”

 

“Kaffas. Wait, are you giving me sass again?”

 

“This is why we need to talk. Some of your assumptions could be wrong,” Fenris sassed. “As it happens, I’ll stay with the Chargers and the Inquisition for now. But I’ve concluded you’re right. Things in Tevinter need to change, and we can do more _there_.”

 

Dorian lost his temper. “Fenris, haven’t we established that you would probably be killed?”

 

Fenris tilted his head and arched an eyebrow. “And taking on the entire Magisterium isn’t deadly? You were right: A slave rebellion _would_ go hand-in-hand with your ethical revolution.”

 

“ _You’d_ be a slave again, Fenris.”

 

“Simple solution. Set me free. Publicly, whatever it takes. I have a reputation, and I’m property in Tevinter. Purchase the rights from whoever inherited me from Danarius, and then set me free. Actually, it might be better if I bought myself. Either way, I could live in Tevinter as a soporati.”

 

“‘Simple,’ he says! That would be quite the statement at Court, wouldn’t it?” Dorian choked out a laugh. “You’ll still need protection.”

 

“We can protect each other. Dorian, if you can end slavery, I want to be there. There was nothing I could do in Tevinter before, but now… With your influence, it’s possible.”

 

“So now you’re with me for my influence?”

 

Fenris made a dismissive noise. “You know I’m not. But if you attempt this, I want you to succeed. I’d like to help you.”

 

“What would you do?”

 

“Help you find solutions, for one. Guard you. Take my word for it: that _is_ an edge in Minrathous. Beyond that… whatever I can. Help slaves escape, if any are ready.”

 

“What about your work in the South? Making sure people don’t get captured?”

 

Fenris rinsed and wrung and re-wetted his washcloth. “Slavers die without me holding the sword, Dorian.”

 

 _Wait, what?_ “You’re – what – organizing resistance from here?”

 

Fenris turned back to him with a cheeky smile. “When I arrived, I was considering joining the Inquisition because I put my people at risk. These damn markings are useful, but difficult to hide. Slavers targeted _me_ , but they hurt my _people_. I've been more useful here.”

 

“Your people. I knew you fought with a few others, but this…” Dorian smiled. “You continue to surprise me.”

 

Fenris shrugged. “I surprise myself, sometimes.”

 

“So, freedom for slaves – and officially, for you – is plausible enough to get you to volunteer to come to Tevinter. Fenris, you’re not setting foot in Tevinter until you’re legally free. You’d still be risking your neck for me.”

 

“The Inquisition may dissolve now. It will at least be less powerful without its unifying enemy. It can’t protect me anymore. Besides, I’d rather work with you, saving Tevinter slaves.”

 

Dorian covered his eyes with his hand.

 

“Dorian, you won't get me killed. If we make this work, I would be risking my neck for our cause, not you. It’s something I’d be fighting for, anyway.” As Dorian relaxed a little, Fenris teased him. “But since you are one of the few people in Thedas capable of pulling this off, it doesn’t make much practical difference.” Fenris stood, climbed out of the tub, and grabbed a towel.

 

“Venhedis. You certainly hold me in high esteem, don’t you?”

 

“Be sure not to disappoint me.” But Fenris grinned as he dried off, and Dorian’s eyes held more hope than fear. “If your work wanders off course, I’d be open to re-negotiation.” Fenris added as he wrapped his towel around his hips.

 

“You would insist, I’m sure. Loudly.” Dorian’s eyes were on that towel.

 

“Not too loudly, I hope. Perhaps we could take a walk instead.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to havvke for being an amazing beta for this whole work! I love the additions you suggested!


End file.
